Only a Fool
by rosncrntz
Summary: Victoria has said it before, and she will say it again, she does not want a silly boy like Albert. But what she does want is out of reach. Like the stars, burning cold and distant in the night, she feels she will never reach him. No matter how hard she tries. No matter how much he loves.
1. Silly Boy

"I have said it before, and I will say it again, Mama. I do _not_ want a silly boy like Albert."

She was sat between her mother and her uncle - who were stood - like a common criminal being scrutinised by a pair of foul judges in the courtroom. It was not befitting of the Queen of England, the commander of the world's greatest empire, and Victoria was becoming increasingly impatient.

"Albert is the best match for you, Victoria."

"No, Uncle, he is not."

"But we have come all this way for you to marry Albert."

"But I tell you I will not be marrying Albert."

"You cannot so refuse him! What will people think?"

"I do not care what people will think."

"Something happened when you were out walking, didn't it? Drina, you cannot judge Albert on one mistake."

"What Albert has done," Victoria cried, her manners failing her in a moment's passion, "is no one's concern but mine. All you need to know is that I will not be asking Albert to marry me. As far as I am concerned, the sooner he goes back to Coburg, the better." Her lips pursed shut, as if blocking the path of more angry words that threatened to spill from her mouth, and her eyes flitted between her magistrates, who both looked equally shocked.

Her mother's mouth opened and closed, like a guppy, but she said nothing. Her uncle's face was contorted into what Victoria assumed was a frown – but in reality it was something altogether more daft.

She could feel the beginnings of a blush come upon her cheeks. She was wont to show any weakness in front of her jurors, so excused herself and briskly departed the room.

She walked further than she needed to, and did not falter in her speed until she had reached her private chamber, at which point she gasped, as if being in the presence of her family was like being underwater. She breathed deeply for a minute or so, wanting nothing more than to rip her corset off so she could take full breaths rather than the little huffs she could muster. In and out. In and out. In and out.

Everything was becoming so confusing. She felt very hot, but she knew that the room was cool, for she could see the window had been pushed open and the muslin curtains were being brushed by the breeze that was coming in. Lehzen always insisted that her windows were opened during the day. She always seemed frightfully concerned that the Queen was locking herself inside too often – and that it was not healthy for her, so she must have some form of fresh air. Victoria thought she was being fussy, but did not mind.

But, today, she could not feel the fresh air in the room. It was stale and hot. It was hard to think straight.

Victoria, beginning to feel a little faint, hurried to the window and pushed it further open. A wave of chill air hit her, and she breathed it in deeply through her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. Her legs felt a little unsteady, and her skin was tingling, but her head was beginning to calm again, and her sense trickled back into her, like a stream of clear water.

It was not at all fair. She had always believed that, as Queen, her thoughts and feelings were paramount. But they were not. And that was unfair. _Why does no one listen to her?_ It would not matter if her entire kingdom wanted her to marry Albert: she would not do it. Sir John would have called this her _stubborn nature_ but Victoria saw it as headstrong - which she did not consider a bad thing at all. And, yet, despite her inclination, everyone insisted that it was in her best interests.

Yesterday, her answer may have been different. For a brief while, she had thought herself quite besotted with her cousin. In fact, she would have proposed yesterday, had things been different. She was quite convinced she would: she had considered what she would wear, what she would say. She had fantasised about the way he would smile at her, the sound of his voice uttering the word 'yes', the skin on their lips catching as they brushed together. She would have said she loved him. The flash of skin when he cut his shirt open had made her breath hitch. His hands holding her as he helped her down off her horse had made her heart beat a little faster. She had scarcely breathed when she thought he would kiss her in the forest. His lips were so intoxicating.

She was attracted to Albert. To deny that would be foolish. But she was attracted to what she wanted Albert to be, not what he was.

What Albert was in reality, Victoria concluded, was childish. For she now believed that she was right about Albert from the very beginning, he was a silly little boy. He was rude, for a start. Victoria could not abide bad manners in her palace. He did not smile when everyone else smiled. He did not care as much for dancing as she. He was rather humourless, and that would not do at all.

And he had cast aside her friend, her oldest and most precious friend, like he was nothing. Like he was one of her childhood dolls. Like he was a simple flower, a token. The way his boots snapped the twigs underneath his feet, he had crushed the very idea of Lord Melbourne. He knew nothing about her, and pretended he did. He did not know about her desperate loneliness at Kensington. He did not know how Lord Melbourne was the first one to treat her like a woman. He did not know how she tried, every day, to be a Queen. He did not know Lord M's gentleness, his kindness, his _feeling_.

But he assumed he knew it all.

And, besides, Albert would probably insist that they walk around forests together on the daily – something that would be impossible. She was far too busy for a companion like Albert. No. He would not do. Buckingham Palace did not have the forests that Albert so desired. Looking into the garden, feeling her strength returning to her muscles, she saw all of the things that Albert would not like.

There were very few trees. Albert would want more. There were rows upon rows of vibrant flowers, all in different colours. Albert would think that unnecessary. There were strict regimented paths. Albert would find them restrictive. There was Lord Melbourne's carriage.

 _Lord Melbourne's carriage._

Her heart flipped, and all the vigour that she had lost in a moment's faintness suddenly coursed through her, sending her small body crashing through the palace.

 _"Who sent for Lord-?"_

Victoria had burst into the room expecting to find her mother, or her cousins, or one of her ladies, or at least a servant or two, and she was quite confident that she would find one of the above.

"Lord M."

Lord Melbourne was stood in the corner of the drawing room, a little taken aback by the Queen's entrance, but still possessing the ease of manner that had become so fundamental to his presence in the palace. A lightness breathed itself into her. A ghost of a smile flickered across her face, and the dull light in the room made stars of her eyes.

"Ma'am," he replied, bowing his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips in reaction to her hasty entrance. She was still panting. Her cheeks had gone from damask to ruddy in her exercise. Victoria could have felt angry, that he mocked her so, but there was a sympathy in those green eyes that smoothed down her roughness.

"I am sorry, Lord M. I did not expect to find you here."

Lord M's ease of manner drained from him, taking all his colour with it. He clenched his fists, without knowing it.

"I was called for, Ma'am. Were you not aware?"

"No."

His fists were white.

"Ah," Lord M said, a creeping sense of discomfort seizing him, "perhaps, I – I should go?" He began to make for the door.

"No!" Victoria cried. Lord M turned on his heels. "No, Lord M, I am glad you are here. I am finding everything quite unbearable today."

Melbourne's face now faded into concern. Victoria did not look at him, for she felt she could not, but walked to a seat and perched herself on it. The Queen could not hear it, but Melbourne's heart began to call out. A sound so small, but Lord Melbourne could feel it clearly. It ached.

"Ma'am?"

"I am tired of everyone insisting that I marry Albert. I have decided that I do not want to marry Albert. A marriage to Albert is the last thing I would want, but no one listens to me, Lord M," sighed Victoria, letting her hands fall helplessly into her lap and her shoulders slump forward. It was not regal of her, but she did not care.

"You do not want to marry Albert?" Lord M asked, approaching her seat hesitantly. He had the thought to reach out and touch her. To let his hand fall over hers, his thumb stroking the soft part of her palm. How would she react? What if he touched her hair? He could take a strand of it between two fingers, and pull it free from the bun. It would fall by the side of her face, over her eye perhaps, and he thought of how pretty it would look. He could trace a finger along her collarbone, and feel her shudder.

It would be treason, of course.

"No, I don't want to marry Albert!" Lord M was brought cascading back down to earth. "He is arrogant, and childish, and silly."

"But, Ma'am, have you considered-?"

"I have considered everything. I am decided."

"Yes, Ma'am, but I think you should take your time to think about this. Albert is-"

"Lord Melbourne, I thought you would be my friend in this."

Lord M was about to say something else regarding Albert's eloquence, his suitability, his status, or the Queen's need to marry, but her voice sliced into him, and silenced him. She was glaring at him now, her eyes looking colder than ever, like the most distant, loneliest stars in the night. He shifted where he stood, his heard aching a little more now, and he opened his mouth. It took a few moments for him to say anything. He did not look at her.

"If you are sure, Ma'am."

Perhaps the aching that Melbourne felt was his heart being torn in two. Or a rupture of some sort. He was called to Buckingham Palace with a job to do. He had been told that the Queen was set on rejecting Albert and, knowing the influence that he held over the Queen, he was asked to persuade her to rethink. When he was leaning over his desk, fingers rapping on a glass of brandy, the order had made perfect sense. It was only on the carriage over that he began to consider the prospect of her not marrying Albert.

It was foolish. And selfish. And he tried to dismiss the thoughts as quickly as they had arrived – but that was easier said than done. He knew that he had rejected her. He could not expect anything more to develop between himself and his Queen now. No. That had ended that autumn's morning at Brocket Hall. Her heart, like the lonely stars, was out of reach. It was better that way.

And, yet, there was a flicker of something hot inside him. It could have been anger. It could have been jealousy. It was most certainly passion. And that flicker was catching. He actively _wanted_ Victoria to reject Albert.

His words, encouraging Victoria to reconsider, fell bitterly from his lips.

"I am sure, Lord Melbourne."

The fact was met with relief and guilt.

 _Was it him that was holding her back? Was she still waiting for him?_

No, the thought was arrogance.


	2. Like the Stars

Time was growing very short, and Albert's impatience was getting the better of him. Despite pleas for him to stay a little while longer, to charm the Queen a little more avidly, to smile at her a little more frequently, Albert had decided before the week was over that they would return to Coburg. Ernest was not surprised at all. Albert had adopted one of his moods – he could see it in his stormy looks. And, once that mood is assumed, there is no persuading him.

The news was delivered to Victoria on the Saturday morning.

"And so we have decided that it would be best for us to return to Coburg."

 _No, Uncle, Albert has decided that it would be best for him to return to Coburg._

"We will be sad to see you go," Victoria said, biting her tongue. "We must have a celebration before you go! When do you plan on leaving?"

Her uncle pondered for a brief moment, a creak escaping his mouth where there should have been words. It was as if he was trying to remember what someone had told him. So that he could retell it.

"I was thinking Sunday morning."

 _Albert was thinking Sunday morning._

"Then it must be tonight!" Victoria rose from her seat with a measure of pomp that seemed uncharacteristic of the graceful Queen. Her uncle, who was not a fool and was well aware of the rift between Albert and Victoria, thought this must be a result of excitement. "Lehzen! Where is Lehzen? We must have a dance, just a little one. Ernest will enjoy it; don't you think? And it will do cousin Albert no harm. Shall we have dinner, too? I have a great desire for profiteroles."

Victoria was asking a great deal of questions, but not allowing time for any answers. Her speech was not far from a skewed stream of syllables, and she was pacing around like a mad thing. Her uncle did however manage to hear the word 'profiteroles', and suddenly the idea of a dinner and a dance became far more appealing.

Albert was not so convinced.

Ernest struggled to keep up with Albert, who was striding up a storm, careering around tree and past pond, silent in all but trudging footstep and laboured breath.

"Albert!"

"She is doing this on purpose, Ernest! She knows I do not like dancing," he cried, stopping dead in his tracks, shoulders heaving from the exercise no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Ernest, who had not expected his brother to stop so suddenly, tripped on a twig and stumbled forward.

" _Verdammt!_ " Ernest spat. His limbs waved wildly for a second, trying to regain balance, before he felt stable on his two feet once again – and he looked bashfully up at his brother who was already sniggering at what he had seen. "It is this English air! It makes me lightheaded. I cannot say I am upset you want to leave, Albert. Coburg is calling."

"We will be back in Coburg soon. But, first, I must sit through another dreary ball."

"Oh, Albert! You are such a bore! Why not dance yourself through another dreary ball?" Ernest cried (having clearly forgotten his prior embarrassment). He broke out into a faux-English ballroom routine, spinning towards Albert, kicking up the beads of morning dew on the grass, holding his arms out as if to a lover.

"Ernest, you are incorrigible."

"The Queen is incorrigible," Lord Melbourne said, sighing, waving his hands in defeat.

It was strange how a simple change of company makes one feel differently about a room. Lord M knew that this was the room where he and the Queen had argued – a time which now felt like a lifetime past, concealed in the closed pages of their book, chapters and chapters ago.

But he also knew that this was the room where he had made the Queen laugh so much that she had to sit down. He could not remember what he had said – the jest was foolish, probably, and he had not expected it to be received with such riotous laughter. He remembered how her eyes crinkled like the feet of a rook, and how her smile was broader than he had ever seen it. It had made him laugh too. Not the joke, but her reaction. His laugh was more reserved than hers, as a subject should be around their Queen, but he was still made quite breathless by it.

A poor maid rambled in, putty-faced and dish-eyed, thinking that the Queen had fallen into a fit of hysterics – but instead found the Queen and the Prime Minister laughing together at a _joke_.

And, after all these moments he had shared with the Queen, he thought himself quite comfortable in this room, within its olive walls and plush red velvet curtains, in and amongst the gilded furniture, plump cushions and masterful portraits. However, now that he was placed in the icy gaze of King Leopold, a man who had given him a task that he had failed, he felt that he was a stranger in this room. No. He felt like he was a stranger in the entire palace.

"I would have thought she would listen to you, Lord Melbourne," King Leopold said, an edge to his voice that Melbourne found disquieting.

"I believe the Queen isn't of the persuasion to listen to anyone, sir."

Leopold shrugged. He was not convinced. He suspected that Lord Melbourne hadn't really tried.

He was correct.

"Will you be coming to the ball tonight, Lord Melbourne?" King Leopold asked, after a moment's consideration, moving from the centre of the room to the east-facing window, casting careful glances at Lord Melbourne, trying to gauge a reaction. The reaction was one of naïve confusion: it was charming.

"A ball, sir?"

"Victoria has asked for a ball to be held, to wish her cousins farewell."

"Oh, well I don't believe I have been invited."

"Has the Queen seen you today?"

"No, but-"

"Lord M!"

Her timing was impeccable. As it always was. She swanned into the room, her pale blue dress shining silver in the light, and she made a path to where Lord Melbourne stood, taking his hands. Her fingers hooked beneath his palms, and her thumbs pressed gently into his knuckles. The colour of the dress brought out her eyes, Lord M thought, she looked quite beautiful today. Like something celestial.

"I am holding a dance tonight, Lord M, you must come!" she spoke as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the entire world, letting go of his hands and taking a seat. Lord M couldn't help flicking his eyes towards King Leopold, whose face had melted into self-satisfaction. It chilled his blood.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I cannot tonight." His voice was low and full of regret. Victoria let out a little giggle, perhaps thinking that he was being jovial.

"What can be more important?" she asked, the smile on her mouth seeping away upon seeing Lord M's seriousness. "It is not bad, is it?" She was about to stand up.

"No! Ma'am, do not concern yourself. It is just that I am very busy tonight. I am feeling quite overwhelmed by Tories!" He chuckled – but he was not happy. She gave the flicker of a laugh – but was not happy. "I am sorry, Ma'am." There was something in his face which struck a note somewhere within Victoria, but she could not identify the place. Was he lying to her? Perhaps he could not bear another dance with the woman he rejected. Perhaps the thought of her was too painful. Perhaps he regretted what he had done.

No, the thought was arrogance.

"Do not worry yourself, Lord Melbourne. I will have plenty of partners." Her words emerged in clumps, disjointedly, distractedly, unnaturally.

The day faded into a pretty evening, the sun retreating behind the trees, painting the mottled grey sky with ribbons of gold, obscuring the colours of daytime with black. It was a cool night with only a little breeze. Victoria thought there was something undeniably romantic about the air. The faint smell of almonds climbed the staircases, and the violins clambered out of windows. The guests were all pretty people in satin bows and lace and ribbons and curls, and men in jackets and freshly-polished shoes. All ready to dance. And all ready to see the Queen.

Victoria was in her room, standing before herself, studying the particulars of her image meticulously. She was not satisfied with what she saw. She had selected the dress that morning, a pale pink gown with a lace cape covering her shoulders. She was very fond of the dress, and it was certainly becoming. Her hair had been tied exactly the way she wanted it to be, and the work was finely done. Her skin was a little dewy tonight, and her cheeks damask. And, yet, despite this, Victoria did not feel beautiful tonight. She knew why.

Her look would not be complete without a few flowers tucked into the front of her dress, or into the weave of her hair.

Any moment, she expected one of her ladies to burst in, holding a few white blooms, and handing them over with the announcement: 'compliments of Lord Melbourne'. But no such lady came. Lady Emma prompted Victoria to grace her guests, telling her that it was getting late. Lady Emma knew exactly what the Queen was waiting for – but also knew that she would not get what she wanted, not tonight.

Lord Melbourne had grown quite sad. Like a flower that never bloomed.

The ball passed with little excitement. The music was fine, the ladies were fine, Queen Victoria was the finest. Everyone agreed that, in the opulent candlelight, she looked like the most beautiful woman in England. Victoria danced twice with her cousin Ernest, who was on top form as always. She danced once with her cousin Albert, who was a little stiff. She danced with a few other partners, all boring. She talked a little and laughed a little and drank a little but could not dismiss the thought of him. She began to convince herself that she would turn around at any moment, and see Lord M stood at the side of the ballroom, silent and still, watching her with a wry smile and the gentlest of eyes.

But he did not arrive.

Victoria felt a sudden tiredness come upon her, as if a lifetime of dancing had caught up with her all at once, and she was led down the candlelit halls in a sort of languid dream. The candles' flickering was intoxicating, and the alcohol she had consumed was sloshing in her stomach.

She was undressed, and the fineries were replaced with her simple nightgown. Her hair was brushed out. The Queen was stripped and scrubbed away and the woman was left.

"I asked you once if you thought my cousin handsome, did I not?" Victoria asked the pretty blonde maid who was brushing the final knots from her hair. The maid looked a little taken aback by the question, but nodded.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Victoria was aware that it was the tiredness and the tipsiness talking, not her good sense, but she spoke anyway,

"Do you think Lord Melbourne handsome?"

The maid's face turned a little pink. She took a long and deep breath. She did not know what to say. She did not know what the Queen wanted her to say.

"Speak truthfully," Victoria added. The silent seconds that passed were uneasy.

"I think Lord Melbourne is very handsome, Ma'am."

The corner of Victoria's mouth turned up, and everything focused for a second. Gone were the effects of tiredness and alcohol. She sobered, and a little wistfully, unfurling like a gardenia in the springtime, she breathed,

"I think him very handsome too."

Once Victoria was left alone, listening to the solemn sounds of the night-time birds outside her window, she felt a little restless. Oh, how changing she was! One moment she was all tiredness, and the next all agitation. She rose from her sheets. She moved to the window, the pitter-patter of her naked feet on the carpet sounding like thunder in the stillness of night. She peeled open the curtain. The night was clear. And the night was beautiful. She was very happy with it.

She opened the little box she kept on her windowsill, unclipping the clasp and gently pulling the lid up, as tenderly as one would touch the wing of a fallen bird. Inside the box lay the telescope that Lord Melbourne had gifted her, and the note he had written.

 _Take a look at the stars, Ma'am. You can learn a lot from the stars. We all see the same stars._

The message had been rather cryptic, not very poetic, and Victoria had found it confusing for a long, long while.

Victoria took the telescope in hand, extended it to full length, and held it to her eye, aiming it at the stars. They were so far away. Still so small. _Still so small._

She had come to understand what Lord Melbourne meant. The stars are used to navigate. As a young Queen, she must have guidance. The stars were powerful. She must be powerful. The stars were lonely. She would be lonely. The stars still shone brightly. She must do so. Despite the darkness.

And he pointed out how we all see the same stars. There is a link between them. No one could take that away from them. As she looked at the stars, she wondered whether he was looking at the same star. Perhaps within their star their gazes mingled, becoming one.

But Victoria found another meaning in their light, in their distance. A meaning that Lord Melbourne did not intend. The stars were so far away, unreachable, untouchable. Lord Melbourne was becoming all these things. Like the stars, his light was cold. Like the stars, he was distant. Like the stars, he offered her no warmth.

But, like the stars, she would have to study him. Like the stars, she would admire him. Like the stars, she would map him.

She would not let him burn out.


	3. Dearest Elizabeth

"I hope we can part as friends, Albert," she said, holding his hands as gently as she would a flower, the way she had done once. His eyes were many things to her: a lover's gaze, the glance of a boy, the stare of an enemy. Albert drove Victoria to insanity – but she also found the challenge of him quite invigorating. Ever since they were children, they bickered – it was more fun that way. She did not want their feelings to be too harsh.

"I hope so too," Albert replied with the smallest and briefest of smiles. It warmed Victoria's heart a little, to see him smile. It was a handsome smile. Victoria wished he would use it more often.

She wished that he would use his smile as often as Ernest, who was waiting for Albert from inside their carriage, and waving to Victoria from the window. Over Albert's shoulder, she waved back to him, smiling a dimple into each cheek. It was not a Queen's wave that she gave her cousin. The Queen's wave was a sculpted hand, tilting to and fro like clockwork, held high so that all could view it. But this wave was a girl waving goodbye to her cousin. It was excited, with spread fingers and enthusiastic abandon. It was pure: a moment of clarity behind closed doors.

With a final kiss of the Queen's hands, Albert turned and climbed into the carriage. Ernest shouted a final farewell (in German) from the window as the carriage pulled away, wheels scrunching on stones and hooves trotting away, and the two princes were gone.

Victoria stood on the steps, watching the carriage until it was out of sight. The moment was brief and anticlimactic; the goodbye swelled within her for a second, before dissipating into the morning's air.

"He is waiting for you inside, your Majesty," the voice of a servant in her ear informed her. She thanked them, took a long breath of the cold air through her nose, and climbed the stairs.

Upon returning inside, Victoria noticed how quiet the palace was. It was such a marvellous dullness. Such a magnificent silence. Ernest's exclamations were gone. Albert's frowns were gone. Her Uncle's disapproving glares were gone. And, in their place, filling that void so exquisitely, stood her dear Lord Melbourne, smiling at her.

"Now that Albert is gone, I feel I can finally laugh again!" Victoria exclaimed, advancing on Lord M, demonstrating what she spoke by giggling. Dash was dozing on a pillow before he was disturbed by Victoria, who tickled his chin, lifting his little black nose to hers and crooning, "And you are much happier, aren't you, Dash? Now that stuffy old cousin Albert isn't around?" Lord Melbourne laughed, half-amused, half-exhausted, and responded,

"I fear you are too harsh on the Prince, Ma'am!"

"Oh, I believe I have been too kind!"

"But if his departure has made you happy, Ma'am, then I am only too glad of it." Victoria blushed. "But I fear the Duchess may not share your opinion."

Oh, it was so frustratingly typical of him, to make her feel guilty. He was so unbearably unselfish.

Victoria rolled her eyes, her voice unrecognisable through its scorn,

"Mama will recover."

It was this side of the Queen that upset Lord M. He knew that she had reason, of course, but she was so dismissive of her own mother. But, as soon as he began to consider her words, Victoria had changed the subject.

"How are affairs in New South Wales?" she asked, sitting down next to Dash, her eyes filled with the excitement of a schoolgirl, learning for the first time about the wide world around her. New South Wales, a source of stress for Melbourne, was probably one of the most exciting things in the world for the young Queen. "There is a settlement named after you, is there not?"

This question was met with a sharp intake of breath, a raising of eyebrows, a chuckle and a reddening of the cheeks. The idea of a settlement named after him had been an embarrassing one from the very beginning. But Sir Richard had been so insistent on the whole affair. He could think of no better name than 'Melbourne', he said so himself, and wrote many a letter to Melbourne himself insisting on the suitability of such a name.

 _Never has a British Prime Minister had a name that so excellently represents the ideals we strive for in New South Wales. Your name, Viscount Melbourne, is so excellently virtuous that all the citizens will see your example as the pinnacle of dignity. There is no more excellent a name for this settlement than Melbourne. I am sure you agree._

The sheer nonsense of the argument, and the excessive use of 'excellent', was not enough to convince Lord Melbourne that his name was a worthy name of a settlement in the new land, but he allowed it nonetheless. It made Sir Richard excellently happy.

He sighed, as he replied to the Queen,

"Yes, Ma'am, they flatter me. I do not think the name will last. Melbourne is not the name of a town or city. I feel it is too long."

The Queen stood up, crying out.

"Oh, nonsense! I think it is a perfectly good name. And if anyone proposes changing it, they will have to answer to me, Lord M." A mischievous smirk fluttered onto her lips and Lord M could swear that her eyes lit up with the idea of punishing someone who proposed changing that name.

"You flatter me too much, Ma'am."

Victoria's words charged behind his.

"I do not flatter you enough, Lord M!"

Their eyes met.

Lord M could swear that the Queen meant something by those words. She was smiling at him but that smile was flickering into something of a gasp. A gasp with no noise, a breathless gasp. It was as if she wanted to say something more. She was about to unclasp her heart to him, unfurling her desires, revealing all intentions. Words were forming in her lips, but there was no breath to fuel the noise. _A suffocated fire at her mouth._ Her bosom rose from her corset as the air between them seemed to thicken. Victoria's eyes were wide, and as affectionate as she could make them. If she could no longer speak of her feelings for her Prime Minister, she would do all she could to show him.

Lord M could see her eyes clearly, glistening a little like the water of the ponds at Brocket Hall, early in the morning when the sun was bright and cold. He could see her eyes, and the affection in them, and he could see the unsaid words in her throat, but he chose to see something else.

"I-I am sorry to leave you so soon, Ma'am, but I have been called to the house this morning. It is unavoidable, I'm afraid."

Victoria's heart beat faster, as if trying to break free of her ribcage. He made her hurt so much.

"You will join me for dinner tonight?" she asked.

"I cannot promise, Ma'am. I will do my very best."

She knew that he was burning out. But she did not know how to stop it. She watched him leave. She thought she saw his hand trembling. Perhaps she was imagining it. He seemed to pause for a second. Was he going to turn around? She wanted to say something to stop him. She didn't. He didn't stop.

Victoria watched his carriage pull away, her brow knotted in thought, her heart crying. She wondered whether he hurt as much as she did. Did it even hurt him at all?

Her ladies were sat in a small circle, a couple sewing, another in contented silence. Lady Emma was looking at the Queen. She knew that the Queen had developed a habit of standing at that particular window, looking out onto the courtyard, to watch Lord Melbourne come and go. For any other visitor, she would not wait for them to arrive, and she would not watch them go. It was a privilege exclusively reserved for her Prime Minister. Lady Emma knew why.

She was the observer of two souls so helplessly devoted to one another – but both unable to say a thing about it.

"Lady Emma, you are a good friend to Lord Melbourne, are you not?"

Lady Emma jumped upon hearing her name, but quickly composed herself, and replied,

"We have a close acquaintance, yes, Ma'am."

"What does he like?" Victoria asked, joining the circle of ladies. She spoke of folly, but in the most pragmatic way. Lady Emma was confused.

" _Like_ , Ma'am?"

"I wish to make Lord Melbourne happy," the Queen said, defiantly. The other ladies passed each other knowing glances. Victoria thought that her affection was carefully concealed – but it was not. "Do you know of anything he may desire?"

 _You, Ma'am. Only you._

"Lord Melbourne would insist that you don't owe him anything, Ma'am, but any token from you would surely make him happy."

"What sort of token do you suggest?"

It was at this moment when the ladies began to contribute, in the best possible way they could.

"Lord Melbourne is fond of politics, isn't he?"

"Oh, no, I cannot gift him something political. What would that even be?"

"Perhaps he would like a drawing. You have a very excellent eye, Ma'am."

"I do not have the time. No, I want to give it to him soon."

"A perfume?"

"No, that is too impersonal!"

"He is fond of his garden, Ma'am," Lady Emma said.

"I do not-"

"Flowers, perhaps, Ma'am," Lady Emma added. Victoria's mouth stopped, and her lips clamped shut. She thought of the flowers he brought her, grown at Brocket Hall. It would be sweet, would it not, to return such a gift. There were so many flowers grown at Buckingham Palace, she could pick some, and wrap them. They would be sure to brighten his desk. Oh, yes, what a lovely idea.

Decided on what she would do, Victoria waited until the sun was higher in the sky, and the earth had warmed, and then she went out into the gardens alone. She found a little pair of scissors at her dressing table: Mrs Jenkins used them to cut threads.

It was growing into a warm afternoon and Victoria had no need for a shawl. She walked briskly down the paths, scissors in hand, picturing in her mind the exact flowers she would give to him. Gardenias were beautiful but she knew that she had to pick a different flower. It was only when she was sat, looking at her favourite portrait of Queen Elizabeth, that she thought of the perfect flower. She had learnt of the Tudor rose a long time ago. The joining of two families, by marriage, by love. One of those flowers was a white rose – a gardenia would do. The other, a red rose. Victoria knew where the red roses bloomed. She hoped he would understand the meaning.

The red rose bushes sat in a row along the bank of the water. The leaves were dark and glossy and the sun sparked off them. And, oh, the roses! They bloomed across the foliage, blossoming out, spilling their colour into the world, like a lover's blood after their heart is broken. They were sad but they were beautiful. They were stark in a world of muted colour. They said all the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

Victoria brought a hand to cup the face of one of them, turning its chin up to look at her. It made her chest swell. It was the only token of love worthy of him. It would make him smile - she knew it would. She pulled its face to the side, revealing the stem, and she took her scissors to its neck, opening the blades before clamping down. The stem did not cut. The scissors squealed. She tried again, pushing the blades harder into the stem. The scissors fell from her hand, into the bush. The Queen huffed, frustrated.

This was becoming such a mess.

The Queen could see the metal glinting, encased in leaves, and she reached out to grab them.

 _"_ _Ah!"_

The thorns jabbed and cut and pricked at her hand. Victoria drew it away, as quickly as one would from a flame. She stumbled back. Her hand was slashed. Her skin was broken in lines as thin as strands of hair, and a bead of her own blood was forming on her fingertip, which had fallen into a particularly large thorn. It was glossy and harsh and it made Victoria panic a little. She cursed, wiping the blood onto her other hand, smearing it across her pale skin, wont to stain her dress. Her blood was red like the roses. Her cuts were stinging.

She would not be dissuaded.

More carefully this time, the Queen delved her hand into the leaves, and took the scissors back into her hand, weaving around thorns to retrieve them again. The stem of the rose she had tried to cut was severed, but not broken. Taking a breath of courage, she pressed the blades against the stem and sawed the rose off. It did not come off cleanly, but she was able to pull the rose from the bush.

Her intention was to make a bouquet of roses. But, evidently, that was not going to happen.

One rose would have to do.

She returned inside, after washing the blood from her hands in the water. There were still a few evident cuts, but nothing particularly noticeable. She wrapped the rose in paper, privately that evening, kissing the paper as she did so. She had the thought that he might kiss the paper too. And that he would feel her lips still on the paper. The ghost of her perfume, the softness of her mouth.

The paper would be their kiss.

She wrote a note, too. It did not say much. She did not wish it to say much. The rose would say enough.

She hoped she could give it to him at dinner, but she was told that he was too busy. His apologies fell on ears that did not want to hear them. The rose was placed in a glass of water beside her bed that night. She wanted to cry into her pillow, but she could not bring herself to do so. She lay awake, listening to the solemn sounds of night, and willing them to just be quiet.

The next morning, Lord M arrived.

"Oh, Lord M how I missed you last night!" she cried upon seeing him in the hall. Lord M gave the same weak apologies that the servant had offered her the night before. Victoria would normally have insisted that Lord M need not worry himself. She would have understood that he was busy. She would have smiled at him, and laughed with him, and forgotten about the whole thing just with one look into his eyes. But, today, she was not so easily distracted. "You never seem to have the time to visit me at the moment, Lord Melbourne."

The use of his name, his full name, made Lord Melbourne's stomach churn. He wanted to change the subject, desperately. He noticed her hands.

"You are hurt, Ma'am. Let me see," he said, holding a hand out for her to take. He told himself that he wanted to inspect her injuries, but he was aware that he just wanted to hold her hand. It was pathetic.

"It is nothing, Lord Melbourne," she spluttered, embarrassed. She was pathetic. She wanted to change the subject, desperately. "You have not answered my question, why are you always busy?"

"Believe me, Ma'am, it is not my choice. If it were my choice to make, I would have come to dinner last night. Believe me, I-"

"You have given my excuse after excuse, Lord Melbourne!" Victoria cried. She was not in a state of thinking. She was beyond upset. She was never one to carefully select her words, but now she was much worse. Her mind was clouded and her passion was taking control. Her veins were hot. Her head began to throb. Melbourne recoiled, hurt, like some wounded animal. "What is it that distracts you so?" He was taking steps away from her. She hated that he did so. His mouth did not open. His breath was shaking from his nostrils. "Why do you not see me anymore?"

"Ma'am," he choked. He had to say something, just to stop her questioning. He felt that, if she said another word, he would crumble. His head was light and his heart heavy. He felt sick. "I-I cannot, Ma'am."

 _Speak to me_ , she thought, _tell me why._

"The thought of… of losing the correspondence I have… had with your Majesty is… too hard to bear. But I feel we cannot continue the way we are," he said, slowly, thoughtfully, but with all the coldness of a rehearsed speech. Victoria, raw and warm and tender, filled the space between them, moving with great speed to where he stood, her hands clasped together to hide their shaking.

"Why? Why do we have to stop? Are you not my Prime Minister? Are you not my advisor?" she asked, eyes scouring his face like a lost thing looking for a path. She wanted to see something. A flicker of warmth, of love. She wanted to see a gap in his façade. She needed him to give her _something_ or she would burn out with him. "Are you not my friend?"

"You know I am that!" the softness of his voice, the quiet of it, had vanished. He cried his words, unthinking. "You know. But I have no alternative."

"What do you mean? I do not understand, Lord Melbourne," her voice was weakening. Her throat tightened until she could hardly breathe.

"I am being asked to step down, Ma'am."

"Why? Who could ask such a thing?"

"There is a lack of confidence, Ma'am."

"They cannot make you. I will not allow it."

"You cannot stop them, Ma'am."

"But, why? Why do they-?"

"They feel," Lord Melbourne interrupted, his voice hard and low, "that I am prohibiting your marrying."

Victoria staggered back, as if his words were a blade, and that blade had delved into her stomach, puncturing her, tearing everything inside of her, making her blood blossom across her dress like the roses.

"But… that is not true. I did not want to marry Albert."

"But you wanted to marry me, Ma'am."

 _Wanted._ Victoria wanted to scream: to tell him that it is what she still wants. More than anything in the world. Not wanted, but want. She tried to scoff. But she sobbed instead,

"They do not know that!"

"But I do." Victoria did not know how he could be so cruel. "I cannot, Ma'am, let myself stand in the way of your marriage."

Victoria's teeth clamped around her tongue. _She would not cry. She would not cry. She would not cry._

"I will try to continue as your Prime Minister. But we cannot continue the," he tried to think of the right word, "companionship, between us. If we do, I will be forced to leave you." Victoria heard his voice crack. At least, she thought she heard it. Without breathing, she uttered,

"I could not bear it."

 _Neither could I_ , he thought. But he left the room with his words still concealed in the bud, only wishing the Queen a bland farewell. It meant nothing.

And the rose, wrapped in paper with tentative hands, tied with a ribbon that once adorned her hair, and labelled with a message written in her own hand, and rewritten, again and again until she was happy with what it said, sat in the water by her bedside, and died there. The petals, once sweet, now limp and dark and fallen. And the note fell into the water.

 _To my dear Lord M,_

I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.  
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,  
Since from myself another self I turned.  
Your dearest Elizabeth,

 _Victoria._


	4. The Queen's Distraction

"A Prime Minister is the leader of a government – not a distraction for the British monarch!"

There was a chorus of jeers and scoffs, people soared from their seats, flapping papers gripped in white knuckles, fists wounding the air, spit flying from angry mouths. A lot of hateful words had been slung at Lord Melbourne in the past couple of weeks, but no one threw them with the grotesque fervour of Sir Robert Peel. His face ripened in anger, into some glossy, red, sour-tasting fruit. Any other day, Lord Melbourne would have passed him a glance from across the house, one of mockery. But Lord Melbourne could not even bring himself to look at Sir Robert, unsure whether it was the words themselves, or the fact that this subject was a little too close to home for him.

It struck something a little too personal. How could he retort with taunting words and sarcastic expressions when the very argument was breaking him?

"We know that the Honourable Gentleman's charms can be very persuasive, but we cannot let the Queen become so infatuated with her Prime Minister that she refuses to marry! Who will be her heir?" he shouted, eliciting a round of cries and insults and hisses, all directed at Lord Melbourne, who sat down, amongst his Party, who were doing a half-hearted job at defending him. Half of the Party agreed with Robert Peel, anyway. "She is vulnerable. And it is our job as Parliament to defend her best interests! We cannot let the Prime Minister take advantage of her Majesty for any longer. The correspondence between the Prime Minister and the Queen is inappropriate and _un-British!_ The Prime Minister has to step down. And, I believe, if he had stepped down when he first intended to, the Queen would be married by now!"

"That is speculation, sir!" the Minister sitting to the right of Lord Melbourne shouted, rising from his seat and jabbing an accusatory finger at Sir Robert Peel who was sitting back down, a smug grin smeared onto his face. Melbourne put a hand to the man's arm, who turned to his Prime Minister to see the face of a man resigned. His eyes were sad, but his face hard. He was wont to show weakness, but it was explicitly clear. Melbourne shook his head. The Minister sat down.

"The Prime Minister," the speaker said. The voice was loud and it pounded in Melbourne's ears like rough winds whipping the shutters of a window. He turned to the speaker, who owned one of the countless pairs of eyes now boring into him, and he shook his head once again. There was a moment when the wind, the fury, seemed to still – as if time itself had stopped ticking – and then the riot began. Cries of coward. Protests. Amassed vile people, all venting their bad days and ugly thoughts upon his head. "The Prime Minister refuses to comment," the speaker said.

"Coward! Coward!"

"Will the Honourable Gentleman stand down?"

"Speak up, Lord Melbourne!"

The words were gunshots, each one inflicting more and more damage upon Lord Melbourne's reputation. And not only his reputation. The wounds hurt him, personally. The few ministers still in support of Melbourne turned to him, sympathy in their eyes and defence left unspoken in their throats.

"Speak up!"

Lord Melbourne stood up. Suddenly. By instinct, not by thought. The room fell utterly silent. The scratch of the metal soles of his shoes against the floor could be heard so loudly that a few ministers were convinced a storm was coming.

Everyone who was in the house that day would speak of the events that unfolded just after that, and they all spoke of the events differently.

Some would have said that he was dignified. Some said that he was a coward. Some said that he was respectable, others that he was pathetic. The truth was that he stood, took a deep breath, let his eyes study the ministers before him and, heaving his heavy heart upwards with his posture, said,

"I cannot comment."

There were a few cries – all cruel - but Peel, Wellington and their close contemporaries remained silent. Melbourne had expected some level of self-gratification from them when he said this. He was sure that they would shake each other's hands with satisfied smugness and then murmur something derogatory about him – sure that they'd destroyed the Prime Minister. But there were no such actions from the Tories. They seemed expectant. They were waiting for him to say something more, to do something more. They seemed a little sympathetic. No. Lord Melbourne was imagining that.

Ignoring the politician in his brain, he stood away from the bench. He listened intently to the man. The man who was not healthy. The man who was sick at the heart.

"If you will excuse me, gentleman."

And he took his leave of the house. Some say his foot caught on the ground, tipping his toe, so that he stumbled upon exiting. Others claimed that he fainted, in a weakened state, grey as a storm, shaking hands reaching for something to steady his reality, heaving and tossing like a ship on the tides. An embarrassed, flustered minister took the Prime Minister's shoulders, steadying him for a second, asking him if he was well. Lord Melbourne insisted in a low voice that he was fine. He would leave alone. He would leave unattended.

He did leave, wordlessly. The house was wordless too, for a moment, before eruptions of rumours.

Looking at the little robin skipping from branch to branch, calling out its little song into the cold, Victoria was feeling colder than the air, and more restless than the robin. The palace was not unheated. In fact, it was cosy and plush and the fires were lit; and the fires were radiating their gentle, cleansing heat into all the corners of every room. The Queen was not dressed inappropriately. No, she had dressed for the cold. Her midnight blue gown was cut at the wrist, and climbed a little further up her chest than some of her summer dresses. The fabric was thick and she knew she would have felt warm in it: if it had been another day. All of her ladies were in the drawing room with her, so the space was not bereft of bodily heat.

Everything that Victoria's eyes and sense could recognise prompted her to believe that she should feel warm. But the shivering of her bones and the goose-pimpling of her skin told her that she was cold.

Perhaps it was not warmth she was bereft of.

Victoria had not mentioned his name all day, but Lady Emma could clearly detect something in her agonised silence, as if she had a cord tightening about her throat, and her incessant fidgeting, and so said to the Queen,

"I would not anticipate Lord Melbourne's arrival, Ma'am, not today."

" _Oh, I am not awaiting him!_ " Victoria cried, a little too fervently for it to be convincing. "Why would I be waiting for Lord Melbourne?"

There was a stiff silence. She wished she hadn't asked the question.

"Of course not," Lady Emma replied, "Forgive me."

Victoria moved from the window to the empty seat in front of Lady Emma, and beside the Duchess. Oh, why wasn't Lady Emma continuing? It was frightfully rude of her: to begin talking of Lord Melbourne and then to stop so suddenly! Oh, how Victoria wished she would continue! But Lady Emma had turned her attention back to her sewing. Victoria huffed. _Must she do everything herself?_

"But why ever not?" Victoria sighed, flatly, feigning indifference, "Why would he not come today?"

Lady Emma did not expect to be called from her sewing so soon, and was in the middle of a stitch when she was forced to abandon it, to reply to the Queen.

"I have heard that debates in the Commons this morning became particularly… heated. Lord Melbourne has taken it greatly to heart."

The feigning of indifference dissolved without another word of explanation.

"What happened? What have you heard? From whom?"

"He seems very ill, Ma'am. Nothing for you to worry yourself about, though, Ma'am. People believe that the scrutiny became a little too much for his nerves today. He is resting," Lady Emma's voice was all serenity. She did not want to distress the Queen.

"Is he so very ill?"

"No, Ma'am, simply tired. As I said, you needn't worry-"

"Do not lie to me, Lady Emma. What has happened to him?"

Lady Emma frowned. She did not want to be the bearer of any stressful news to the Queen, but the Queen was so obstinate. And her voice was so sharp, she knew she was no longer speaking to a fellow woman, but the Queen. The truth was unavoidable.

"All I have heard is speculation, Ma'am. I have yet to hear from Lord Melbourne himself. No one is allowed to see him, on his express orders. He is resting."

"What have you heard?" Victoria asked. It was more of an order than a question.

"Lord Melbourne left the house before the end of debates today. You must understand, Ma'am, that for the Prime Minister to do so is… controversial."

Victoria detested politics. She didn't understand it. It was dated, and boring, and tedious, and old-fashioned, and silly, and boorish, and the domain of stuffy old men and their ugly wives. Except Lord Melbourne, of course, she hastily reminded herself.

"Why?"

"It is not the custom, Ma'am."

"Oh, I am sick and tired of custom. But, Lady Emma, you have not answered my question. What is it that ails the Prime Minister?" she pressed.

"They say he collapsed."

 _Collapsed?_ Oh, she could not bear the thought. It pained her more than anything to think of him in illness.

"He is fine, Ma'am. Believe me. I-"

"Get me an unmarked carriage. I have to see Lord Melbourne."

"You cannot, Ma'am. He is not seeing anyone!"

"I am the Queen of England!" she cried. Her lips formed a tight seal. Her eyes were the harbingers of a lover's tears. They glistened with dewy despair, but no tears fell. Her chin quivered, but no tears fell. Her chest stuttered, but no tears fell. She willed her voice to be strong. _Please, please, be strong._ "I will not be turned away by the Prime Minister."

It was strong enough. It would do. The carriage was called. Victoria went alone, veiled. She cried on the journey. No one saw.

When the carriage stopped, a woman dressed for mourning climbed out and walked across the street, head down and quick feet clipping the cobbles, towards the Prime Minister's residence, and was allowed inside. People who saw were scandalised. Who was the mysterious woman entering the Prime Minister's residence whilst he was ill?

If they knew it was the Queen, they would have been more scandalised.

"Tell Lord Melbourne that it is the Queen," Victoria said. She was putting on her best regal voice. Even her servants at Buckingham Palace didn't receive this tone of voice. This was something altogether more trimmed and taciturn.

"He is resting, your Majesty, he says he is not accepting visitors," a rather earnest-looking manservant told her, standing in the middle of the hallway as if expecting her to dash past him and up the stairs to where Lord Melbourne was resting. Sadly, the expectation was not completely unreasonable.

"Tell Lord Melbourne I will not be refused. I will see him. I will not leave until he has seen me."

"Your Majesty-"

"I will see him," she repeated. Her eyes were cold like the eyes of her portraits. There was no feeling in their painted stillness. They were the Queen's eyes: not Victoria's. The earnest-looking manservant went from earnest to conflicted. Victoria could see the orders of his master playing over and over again in his head, now contrasted to what the Queen wished of him. Surely, the Queen's wishes were more important. But the manservant feared that the Prime Minister's health was at risk. Victoria was growing impatient. "Where is Lord M?"

"He's-"

"I am here, Ma'am."

Both figures, equally confused, turned to the origin of the voice, and saw Lord Melbourne, in a dressing gown, unbound, standing on the staircase. He was the same old friend that Victoria's heart sang for, but he looked a little frailer, and a little older. His shoulders seemed to weigh heavier on his frame. His face fell a little looser around his skull. His voice was smaller.

"Lord Melbourne…" Victoria began, but her words turned to nothing upon speaking them. She realised that she did not know what she wanted to see Lord Melbourne for in the first place. Irrational instincts had brought her here; sense never had a say in the matter. And now sense was suffering.

"Leave us," Lord Melbourne said to the manservant, who bowed before walking down the corridor and turning a corner. Melbourne waited until his footsteps could no longer be heard before he descended the staircase and approached his Queen.

His illness made him look dishevelled: which was incredibly romantic. Victoria could imagine him stalking a barren, wind-whipped moorland before stopping beside a crippled oak, leafless in death, and meeting his lover there – exchanging kisses in the winter air. She briefly imagined herself as this lover. He would snake an arm around her waist, like the ivy claiming a gothic parsonage. He would whisper in her ear like the wind whispered to the roaring lake. He would teach her what it means to be a woman.

"It brings me great discomfort to see you here, Ma'am," he said, so suddenly that Victoria's fantasy was banished in an instant. She blinked. She blinked again. She had almost begun to expect him to be this romantic, ironically Byronic, figure. But he was not, he could never be; he was her Prime Minister.

"How can you say that, Lord Melbourne?" she asked.

"You risk everything, Ma'am," he explained, shaking his head, his face so rife with _feeling_ that it broke Victoria's heart that his words were so void of it. "If anyone saw you…"

"But no one did."

"You cannot be sure of that."

"I don't care."

"But you should."

Damn him. Everything she said, every single romantic word from her mouth was greeted with a practical one from his. Damn practicality.

"I wanted to know if you were feeling any better." It was a lie of sorts. She did want to know that he was well, but it was not what she came for. Lord Melbourne could see her lie as clear as day but chose to ignore it.

"What happened at Parliament today was unfortunate, but I am fine, Ma'am."

"Good."

"Thank you for your concern."

"You're welcome."

Victoria felt the coldness come upon her again. She wanted to be warm.

"Do you remember the Coronation Ball, Lord Melbourne?" she asked, a stupid idea coming to mind. Anything reasonable within her was trying to stop her from acting. But the stupidity was too powerful, and so prevailed.

"Ma'am?" It was a strange subject to arise. It had no clear link to what had just passed between them. It was years ago. She hadn't mentioned it for years. And, now, she was talking about it as if it were only last week. Victoria continued, wistfully,

"And you told me that I had to retire. And I said how I wanted to dance with you, do you remember? And my hand fell," she lifted her hand, which felt too heavy for her wrist, and placed it on the centre of Lord Melbourne's chest, which stuttered with breath as he felt the contact, "right there." Victoria could feel his heart beating, swelling and collapsing, swelling and collapsing, locked in a ribcage, unreachable. It was so loud she could hear it. Lord Melbourne, almost sensing her pulse in her fingertips, almost feeling the damp of her sweating palms, gulped. His mouth was dry, but he managed to say two words,

"I remember."

"I felt something in that moment. Didn't you? I didn't know whether it was the champagne, or the candlelight, or the late hour. But I think it might have been something else. Did you feel it…" She wanted to say William, "Lord M?" He did not reply, but wanted to. He did not take her hand, but wanted to. He did not kiss her, kiss her deeply with unashamed force until they had to stop, just to carry on breathing. But, lord knows, he wanted to. "If you were to stand down, and you were a Viscount, not a Prime Minister, could we-?" Victoria's education had not taught her the words for what she meant. But she did not need to say it, for Lord Melbourne understood her perfectly.

"As a man and a woman, Ma'am?" he asked.

"Nothing more," she breathed, "Would you take me as a woman?"

Her eyes were so hopeful, as she gazed up at him, hand still resting on his chest, her cheeks flushed pink and her mouth open ever so slightly. She was exquisite.

"Of course I would."

She could have cried, if her heart were not so full.

"But you would not want me to step down, Ma'am. I am your Prime Minister, you understand that. Inclination means nothing." He looked so sad. Why so sad?

He had made a puncture in her heart, and everything that had made it full was trickling out again.

"Inclination means everything." She was pleading with him the way a prisoner would grovel to a Queen, not the way a Queen would address her Prime Minister.

"Not to us, Ma'am. Not to us."

His face was so close to hers that she could feel his breath ghosting on her forehead. It was hot, and made her skin tacky. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted nothing more. She could die peacefully with his kiss on her lips. Without it, purgatory was the only fate for her. Endless, agonising purgatory. She believed that she said something without meaning to. Her mouth formed the word 'please' of its own accord. He saw it. His eyes did not leave her lips. He studied the curve of them as if it were an ancient manuscript. He observed the movements of them like he mapped the stars. She was the most amazing woman he had ever met - and she was so completely besotted with him. He was not at all worthy. He could never be worthy of her. Her, in all her excellence and majesty. Her, in all her beauty and intelligence. _Her_. The Queen - no - the woman, standing before him, calling out for him, wanting him.

Damn convention.

His lips were on hers before Victoria had time to realise that he was leaning in. His hands were on her chin, her neck, cupping her face as gently as he handled the gardenias in his garden, treating her as softly and as tenderly, holding her in as much beauty as he did the flowers, more so. His mouth was alien at first, a bit dry and tentative, but her mind soon caught up with the rapid world and she deepened the kiss. He stammered a moan, briefly, so brief that she could easily have missed it if she hadn't felt the vibration of it passing through her bloodstream. She was fuelled by instinct now, not experience. Her mouth was so soft on his. He could not remember the last time he'd kissed, and he definitely could not recall the last time he'd kissed like this. Perhaps he never had done.

The coldness in Victoria was banished, and it was all warmth. Warmth in her fingertips tracing his chest. Warmth in her feet, unstable and giddy beneath her, hardly holding her up anymore. Warmth in her cheeks. Warmth in her stomach, flipping like a fish. Warmth in her heart. Her warmth was passing into him. Keeping his star alive. Stopping him from burning out.

It was intoxicating and perfect and awful.

It was Melbourne who pulled away, as if scolded, suddenly. Victoria's life was drawn from her. His absence was fatal. His gentle hands turned to stone. He staggered back. His mouth was open, and shining, but he clasped his hand to it. He was panting, shoulders heaving, battling with a passion that Victoria could not understand with reason but could feel with her being. He didn't even look at her. Had her warmth burnt him?

Victoria would have said something if he had not stolen her heart and breath.

"We cannot, Ma'am."

Listless and vapid, but still reeling from the sensation of his ardour, the Queen took her Prime Minister's advice, for once, and returned to the palace – leaving him to rest and recover.


	5. Love Her Back

The days passed laboriously. The sun dragged itself up and over London every morning, and slumped back down again at the end of the day, passing the task over to the moon, who took the mantle, begrudgingly. The pewter sky blended into the shining pewter slate rooves which blended into the dull pewter windows and the busied pewter streets, full of sad little people trudging in old boots, back and forth like a metronome.

Lord Melbourne was not accustomed to such dizzying idleness, and was more than ready to return to work. He tried his hardest to do paperwork, hunched over his desk, busying himself, but was stopped by a manservant telling him that he should rest. He'd had enough of resting. But he did as he was told like a well-behaved schoolchild – simply to avoid conflict.

He returned to bed. He hated being in bed in the afternoon. He felt pointless. He'd always been one to keep busy. He'd read a lot as a child, read less at Cambridge, but filled his time with idly pretentious pursuits that he questioned now with the benefit of years. But he was still a very busy man. Lord Melbourne found that with inactivity came all the bitterest throes of the mind. Melbourne could have been a soul prone to melancholy, if he did not keep himself so busy.

And, in these days of 'illness', he found himself slipping into unhappiness.

The Queen was surely waiting for him.

 _The Queen._

He hadn't forgotten what had occurred – but he'd tried to put it aside. Perhaps because it was too painful, or maybe because it was too inconvenient, or just because it was so perfect and now he knew the perfection was over.

He had tried to banish it – to no avail. Even to banish one little fraction of her would be enough for him not to go utterly mad. But it was an impossible task. Her blue eyes, wide and shining, were painted on the back of his eyelids so that he saw them in every blink. Her hand, pressing on his heart, was still so vividly present on his person that he was almost sure she was still there. Her lips, oh, her lips had made him drunk. But what a beautiful intoxication. If drunkenness was this, there was surely no finer way to live.

If this was what it was to be a drunkard, let him drink until his liver is sick with it.

He had thought himself in love before, but it had never felt like this. He had convinced himself that love was the sight of a pretty face. Caroline was pretty. He was sure that love was a pleasant conversation. His conversations with Caroline, particularly at the beginning, were pleasant ones, with a little laughter and a little interest. He thought he knew what love was. He had thought himself fully acquainted with the pangs of it, with the trials it brought, with the souls it ensnared and the time it ate. But, in truth, he was never quite in love with Caroline. Caroline was a companion, and what seemed like a fine lady and, perhaps, was indeed a fine lady – overlooking the shame she had brought him. She had brought him a son: a son whose memory was too hard to contemplate. A son who he missed with throbbing heart, with all his creaking joints, laboured breaths, headaches. His death was painful still. A pain that could never be anaesthetised.

Caroline's death was painful still. But the pain she brought could not liken to the agony the Queen offered.

Love was not a pretty face: love was the only face in the world. Love was not a pleasant conversation: love was a battle of two wits so evenly matched that a winner could never occur. Love was not Caroline Ponsonby. _Love was Victoria._ Love would never be anything other than Victoria, his sovereign, his ruler, his Queen.

And, oh, how she loved. And, oh, how he suffered with it.

The little pewter people were turning to mist. His breath clouded the window in front of him. He hadn't realised he was staring at the street. In fact, he did not know why he was staring down at the world from his window. A little jolt kicked into his heart at every passing carriage. Perhaps he was waiting for her, unknowingly, hoping that her little unmarked carriage would come trundling down the lane and that she would emerge, the answer to his prayers. But she did not come. It was no wonder. He had been cruel.

It hurt him, more than she could possibly understand. To turn her away, again and again, and have to watch her eyes mist over, like the window pane before him. Like the window pane, her eyes, too, were the windows to something impossibly wide, infinitely beautiful. The universe existed behind the window, but all was obscured, blurred, swallowed up. And nothing would make him happier than to wipe those eyes, reveal the picture, to study the universe in the icy blue of her irises. But he could not. And so he swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him, and watched.

He felt he could deny her no longer. Why must he keep denying her? Why must the world force him to deny her? He would go insane.

She was so young, and naïve, and romantic, and loving, and tender, and wonderful.

 _He had been a fool._

"Lord Melbourne, sir?"

"What is it?" His voice broke out harsher than he wished it too. He backed away from the window, half-embarrassed, half-anguished. The manservant at his door thought of asking him if he was well. He did not look well. But it was not illness that seemed to ail him. "Speak, man."

"There is an invitation for you," the manservant spluttered, holding up an envelope in queasy hands.

"Leave it on my desk," Melbourne replied, distractedly. An invitation? He immediately thought of Victoria. His heart prompted him towards her. The way it always did. Like a ship to harbour. She was the lighthouse. No, it could not be her. Surely, she wouldn't be so foolish as to invite him to a ball of some sort, amongst all these vile rumours.

 _Were they even rumours anymore?_

The manservant teetered towards the desk, which was laden with all the usual papers, quills, ink pots of various sizes and colours, once nicely arranged and kept, but made mad by hard work and late nights. He placed the invitation atop a stack of documents before turning sharply and moving as fast as he could out of the room. His master's voice stopped him,

"Thank you," Melbourne added, ashamed of his severity. The manservant nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Melbourne took some time before approaching the table, contemplating the different outcomes in great detail. If it were Lady Portman, the invitation would cause him no trouble. If it were Robert Peel, the invitation would cause him no more trouble than if it came from any other Tory. But, if it was his Queen, it would cause him strife. Surely, she was not so rash. But that was exactly what he liked about the Queen: her rashness. What would he do? Would he accept? Surely, he could not. Surely, he had to refuse. But he could not refuse. It was his monarch calling him. Surely, he could attend a ball. That would not reflect too badly on his character, would it? It would be rude for the Prime Minister not to attend. Sir Robert Peel and Wellington would not see Lord Melbourne's attendance as anything more than him fulfilling his duties. Surely.

Tories: one can never know what to expect.

He edged over towards the letter, the world seeming to move independently around that single spot where it had been placed, and then he saw the handwriting. A pretty little scrawl. Small and fine.

 _Lord M._

Of course. She was perfectly foolish enough.

He picked it up and pulled the wax seal apart from the paper. His heart was sinking into the depths of his ribcage. It was from her. He knew the hand. It was an invitation to a ball, for what he did not know. Victoria did not seem to need a reason to host balls and parties. She seemed very fond of them, despite the expense and the effort.

This one was very sudden. It struck Lord Melbourne as strange. He wondered when it was that she had hatched the idea. He wondered why.

And the invitation was for him, of course. She was inviting him to a ball, one week from today, at Buckingham Palace.

It was not Lord Melbourne's mind that spoke to him, next. But, instead, it was the mind of another: a voice he had not heard in a very, very long time. It was the voice that had responded to his mother, when he was but a child. It was the voice that had first told him to approach Caroline. It was the voice that spoke to his boy, as his hand enveloped the boy's smaller hand, tense at first, but then supple as the dreams took his son. The dreams cradled him, numbing his mind and softening his chubby face and rosy cheeks, and holding him there until the morn.

It was not Lord Melbourne's sense. It was not the Prime Minister's mind. Lord Melbourne, British Prime Minister, was gone. It was only William now. It was William's voice, William's sense, William's mind. William Lamb was the only voice in his head, and the voice was saying, no, shouting something, loudly and clearly:

 _Love her back._


	6. The Pole Star

The wind was hard on the windows of the carriage, whipping the panels and making the rain lash the wheels and bombard the poor driver. The occasional crack of thunder, rumbling through the earth like a great wave of noise, disturbed the songbirds, who had found the winter months perfectly untroublesome thus far – but were beginning to change their minds. The sky was obsidian, and the night un-starred. This was not a night to be leaving the house, but the Queen calls, and when the Queen calls, one cannot stay at home.

Particularly not the Prime Minister, whose duty called him from his house on this most disturbed of nights. Duty, he told himself, but it was his heart leading him now, and it was repeating its purpose like a mantra: love her back, love her back, love her back. His sense, compelling him to be sensible and still, was made dumb.

The palace was alight, little windows ablaze, carriages outside aflame. The streets outside were shadowed by its glorious splendour. Even from the grounds, one could practically feel the music captured inside, the buzz of people, the opulent candlelight in every corner, the irrefutable sense of royalty. There was nothing quite like it on this earth. Nothing so humbling. Nothing so elevating. The carriage pulled up, wheels skidding on sodden ground, and the depression of the weather was made null by the anticipation of the palace.

Lord Melbourne was a little wetted by the time he'd been welcomed inside. His hair clung to his forehead and sent a little stream of water down the bridge of his nose, flowing to the tip of it, at which point it occasionally dripped on to the ground in front of him. He resembled a wet dog. Luckily for him, the Queen was fond of dogs. Her guests, however, were less so – and Lord Melbourne received some level of whisperings upon his entrance into the ballroom. Everyone wondered why he was out of bed so soon after his illness, especially in such awful weather, but everyone concluded that it was due to the fact that Lord Melbourne was purely smitten for the Queen.

He could hear whispers. He was unsure whether it was the wind, or the people.

Lord Melbourne was surprised that he could not see the Queen upon entering the ballroom. The Queen was usually the centrepiece of her parties, shining like a radiant beacon in the centre of a crowd, dressed top to toe in the finest clothes, armed with her bravest face, chin as high as she could make it. But the Queen was nowhere to be seen. Indeed, there was many a face that Lord Melbourne recognised as important, but none of any particular interest. A Duke here, a Lord there, but no Victoria.

"She will be very glad to see you, William."

Melbourne turned to see Lady Emma, that same knowing smile on her face that he was so used to, that same cocked brow, standing beside him, looking to the centre of the ballroom where he was looking. She knew that he was looking for her. He hardly knew how to reply to such a statement. Every single reply that crossed his mind was inappropriate in some way. He was aware of all the ears in the room.

"I am glad of it," he replied, as blandly as he could muster. His voice wavered a little. He damned his weaknesses.

"You are well, then, I take it," Lady Emma said and then, with a deal more sincerity, bordering on sadness, she added, "I was worried for you."

"I am much better, Lady Portman, thank you." Lord Melbourne's reply was not intended to be so abrupt.

Lady Emma sighed as she watched the Prime Minister. He did not turn to look at her when he spoke to her, but continued to stare at the ballroom, as if expecting the Queen to appear out of nowhere, dancing in the very centre of the floor. It was helpless, and hopeless. His eyes were sad and his brow riddled with something that she could barely comprehend, and doubted he could either. She made a little more conversation with the Prime Minister, but all questions were answered with curt replies and more wistful staring at the ballroom. It was impossible to talk to him – his mind was so fixed on the Queen. And, as if on cue to make Melbourne's heart ache just enough, the grand doors at the end of the room swung open, the music swelled, and the Queen entered.

There was a general intake of breath.

Lord Melbourne did not breathe at all.

She looked so small, tonight, dressed in coral pink satin with gardenias in her hair and lace on her neckline. It was finely made, so finely. She was so tiny, and delicate, that she could have been a doll, but she had the countenance of a lady of great stature. Such high esteem. Her eyes drifted over her royal subjects, with an air of benevolent superiority, until her eyes fell on the familiar green of her Prime Minister's gaze, at which point her expression faded into something indefinite.

The festivities continued, the music returned to its normal background tone, and attentions were placed more equally about the room, but the Queen was most definitely still on the mind of all – some more than others. For some, she was consuming the brain.

"Lord M, you haven't visited the palace in the past week," Victoria said, brazenly like an unhappy child, approaching her Prime Minister, her heart skipping in her chest as she remembered their last encounter. She was nervous of him, as if her heart feared another rupture from his hands. But her mind, quicker and harder than her heart, was desperate to engage with his wits. Melbourne, wary of the Queen's mood, smiled, softly.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I've been unwell, but, I feel I can see more clearly now."

Victoria's breath hitched. Her pupils grew. Did he mean something by that? The look in his eyes frightened her. It was not a look she had seen before. Before, he had been restrained, hesitant, but now he seemed assured. Or was she imagining it?

The eyes and whisperings of the room halted their conversation, and the pair moved to different partners. It was out of necessity, not choice.

Victoria danced with a few different partners, but could not prevent her eye from drifting to Lord Melbourne during every one. He hardly spoke to another soul, but devoted his time to watching her.

 _Like a navigator to the pole star._

It was ill-advised, but neither cared for good advice. As their eyes met from across the room, one steady thing in a haze of music and swirling and drunkenness, they both imagined what it might be like, to dance to these songs together, alone, in a ballroom of their own. Victoria thought of what songs she would like to hear, whilst he took her waist, and pulled her closely to him. Melbourne imagined what her eyes would say to him, and what they could indulge themselves in, away from the peering eyes. Victoria could see Melbourne's imagining in his green eyes, and Melbourne could see Victoria's in her blue eyes.

They wondered whether they were imagining the same fantasy.

Victoria was without a partner as the night began to grow later and the wind began to howl more ferociously, and Lord Melbourne seized his opportunity. Approaching her, he willed his shaking hands to be still. When he reached her he did not need to say a word. Victoria obliged him. It was foolish, and everyone noticed. Wellington was present. He took great notice.

He could not determine whether it was his sudden restraint in realising the foolishness of their actions, or her nervousness in being around him, but there was something unmistakably wrong in the way they danced with one another that night. They had once spun together around the floor, trapped in each other's gaze, supported by the other's hands, and together they let the entire world trickle away until their two souls were the only things left. But, now, they danced knowing that every eye in the room was fixed on them. As long as it was this way, the world was solid and they could not exist as two hearts alone in the world. And they did not dance so well.

But, despite the lack of quality in their dance, Victoria had never felt so much during a dance before that moment. She could feel the world moving through her. The gardenias in her hair burned hot against the back of her head, and the cold of his hand pierced the fabric of her dress, and made her skin shiver. His eyes were full. Her bosom was empty.

Melbourne was rash, and acted not as Lord Melbourne, but as William Lamb.

"I must talk to you, Ma'am," Melbourne uttered, as the dance began to slow down. His words were close in her ear, and they made her organs turn inside her. She must be sensible. She must be hesitant.

"We cannot leave together, Lord M," Victoria whispered, when she passed him. She was silent until she passed him again, "I will meet you in the corridor. Leave through the east door. Five minutes."

"Yes, Ma'am," Melbourne replied, made drunk again by her acceptance. Both were near frenzied, but quiet about it.

Victoria left from the west door. Melbourne wondered how long it would take Victoria to work her way around the palace to appear in the corridor outside the east door. He would leave in five minutes, like she'd asked.

Five minutes had never passed so painfully before. Every second of it pulsed through his veins. He swore he could hear her footfall in the corridors of the palace. He could feel her breath from outside the door. He could read the words in her head. He was made sick by the retention of his feelings. Four minutes. Oh, God, why does time meander so? He considered what she might try to say to him. He pondered over replies to imagined questions. He created lines of impossible romance. He knew they would never be spoken, but he revelled in the prospect of it. It was thrilling and alien and he had not felt so young since he had courted Caroline – and that was not nearly this maddening. Three minutes. Had the rainwater on his hair dried? He must look such a mess. He straightened his necktie, pulled his sleeves straight, looked down at the shine of his shoes. He wondered whether she would think of him as old. He had hardly slept these last few nights and so his eyes must look hollow. Two minutes. She looked so beautiful tonight, like the warmest stars, like the prettiest gardenia in his garden: brash in all things.

One minute. _Oh, please, please, please, let me be happy,_ he thought. _Let me have this. Let me have her._

He walked, inconspicuous, but purposeful, out of the east door, and into the corridor. The wind was violent, though the windows were bolted shut. The rain was hammering its beads of light against the glass, relentlessly. Victoria was stood by the window, her back to him, her body heaving with breath. She had heard the door, but did not turn. He walked. She breathed. He walked. She breathed.

"Ma'am," he muttered. He was closer than she thought, and jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Lord Melbourne," she replied. "What is it you-" Her voice lost breath and stopped. She took a couple of laboured gasps, and continued. "What is it you wish to say to me?" Lord Melbourne was brave, braver now than he had ever been in all his life. Assured not to let the world keep him from his happiness for another second, he said,

"Ma'am, I have treated you unfairly. No, not unfairly. I have treated you cruelly." Victoria was about to protest, but Melbourne sensed her unease, and placed a hand on her arm. "But no longer. Victoria, you-"

 _What to say to his Queen?_ His mouth could not form the words of his soul.

"You mean everything to me," he rasped, his voice deeper and frailer now than she had ever heard it. He was fragile and it only made him more handsome.

The wind threatened to silence him. Victoria thought it had made her deaf. She could not be hearing these words for they were not Melbourne's words. She had never thought him capable of such explicit feeling. There were no facades now, no hidden meanings, no wry smiles, no double-meanings, no lies, no fronts. He was simply a companion. The companion she wished for. She was dreaming, surely.

"You are my everything,"

"And you mine," she choked. "And you mine, Lord M. Always. Always. Always."

The wind battering the windows only fuelled their fervour, heightened their urgency. A call to arms for their willing hearts.

Their lips sought each other's out, like lost creatures in a labyrinth, desperate for something solid, something familiar. They kissed fervently, with abandon. Anyone could have seen them. Exchanging feverish touches, clinging on to anything they could. Their minds were empty of all, except for this ardour they shared. Victoria's sighs filling the air that seemed so silent compared to nature's ferocity. Melbourne could feel himself becoming drunk yet again, and adored every second of it. Victoria's hand fell on the window. It was cold and beating with the drum of the rain, and her fingertips dragged the condensation, forming droplets, setting them rolling. The lovers only stopped to gasp. The gardenias fell from Victoria's hair, dropping to the ground, leaving only a white petal tucked between brunette strands. Victoria was first to halt the kisses, panting, red-faced,

"I must see you tomorrow."

"No, Ma'am, someone will see you."

It was foolish for him to be so concerned, considering they had just exchanged such affections in the corridor outside the ballroom.

"They will not, Lord Melbourne. Have faith in me."

"I cannot risk you attending my house."

"Then I will see you at Brocket Hall," she cried, gripping the lapel of his jacket, anchoring him to her, her eyes skipping between his, searching for some of the sympathy he had just shown her. "There, we will be quite alone, will we not? Will you accept me?"

Her voice was fast and frantic and lacking air but all was made up for in hopefulness. She had not felt passion before, and the experience was petrifying. But it excited her beyond her own understanding – and so she felt forced to act upon it somehow. He smiled in his own soft way.

"At Brocket Hall, Ma'am? Always."

Victoria took Melbourne's hands from her body, peeling them away like a wax seal from parchment, and took them both gently, looking down at them. As far as she was concerned, these hands were the finest riches the Queen owned. They trembled, with fear. If she had the power over his body, she would still them, calm them to utter serenity so that they would cease their trembling and exist meekly. But she could not. And she found the shaking endearing. She smiled, a ghost of an airy laugh forming in her chest, encompassing her heart, passing through her throat, rising through her lips, and appearing as a modest grin. Pretty. She leant down, eyes downcast, and kissed his knuckles. Her mouth was healing. Her lips were balmy. He could not speak, the fuel of his words was exhausted. There was no fire left in him – he had lent it all to her. She owned him, entirely.

She had left him heartless.

"I am so tired of being unhappy, Ma'am," he said, doped with her affection, not thinking straight. She clasped his hands more tightly between her fingers, brushing her thumbs across the backs of them.

"You will no longer be unhappy, my Lord. I promise you."

She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, brisk, but no less loving. He savoured the contact. He felt it long after she had ended it. Pressing on his cheek. _Pressing._

"I must go back to the ballroom. I will see you at Brocket Hall tomorrow, yes?"

"I will ride down in the morning, Ma'am. I will meet you there."

"I will think of nothing but you, until we meet again," Victoria promised him. It was truthful. She could not possibly think of another voice, another's eyes, another's lips, another's hands scouring her, another's mind, another's soul. She would dream of him tonight. She let go of his hands.

 _What use did those hands have, now, that they were not holding hers?_

He stood, aimless, beside the storm-beaten window, hands void of her grasp, lips void of her kisses, eyes void of her face, as she walked away from him and back towards her responsibilities.

The woman remained in the corridor, with her Prime Minister. The woman belonged in the gardenia, which still lay on the ground. The woman was encased in it, harboured in its nectary blooms and downy petals, thin and delicate as spider's silk. The Queen alone returned to the dance.

Melbourne stooped low, and scooped up the fallen gardenia in his hand. Standing back up, and observing the riotous night locked outside, he brought it to his nose and inhaled. It was as all flowers should smell, fresh, saccharine, light and airy like the springtime and the lovers it harbours. But, beneath the aromas of which he was so familiar, he detected one that was not of a flower. It was a perfumed smell, like rich oils, clean and young, peppered with the smoke of candles and the aura of powder: _it was the smell of her._

He kept it with him.

Neither he, nor Victoria, saw Lord Wellington.

Lord Wellington had seen them, and had observed.

With quiet shock.


	7. Two Persons

The weather hadn't weakened its grip. The rain had faded out in the early hours of the morning, but the clouds persisted, blurring the sunlight and obscuring the blue sky with mottled grey daubs. The soft salmon pink of the sunrise was spilled across, offering a little cheeriness to the grey, fringing the clouds with subtle yellows and muted chestnuts. The stretching skeletons of leafless trees sagged heavy under the weight of the air, still sodden with the previous day's storm. The world had a definitive smell to it – leafy and wild and fresh and almost minty in its coldness. The morning was like a piece of paper, clear and bright, stained with ink, crisp and crinkly underneath footfall.

The day would be the story written on the page, unfolding like a novel in busy hands, unclasped and vulnerable to a worthy or wicked author.

Black wings, kicking off yesterday's dew, dived from rookery to tree and back again. Their cries, thrown from silvery beaks, crackled into the stillness. Their beady eyes caught the light, or, at least, what little light permeated the wall of lead above. One could see a sadness in the glimmer, as if mourning the fledging of their brood last spring, but a hopefulness for the end of the harsh winter, when they would do it all again. Perhaps it was only imagination. Human projections on corvid birds. Excessive sentimentality.

Lear's stormy night had given way to a lover's morn: Romeo without the tragedy. Antony bereft of Cleopatra. Orlando writing poems for his Rosalind.

The ride down had been hard, plagued with mud and wind and the dark, and Melbourne had not slept beforehand, and was tired. His shoulders ached. His neck ached. His back ached. He wondered if Victoria shared in his fatigue, in his aching. He thought of their bodies as one, now. What he felt, she would feel. What she felt, he would feel. One mind, one heart, one person.

He leaned back against the stone, sighing, and remembered the autumn.

He was sat here, he remembered it well, vividly. And she approached him, veiled like a widow, dressed in burgundy, dark like red wine, cheeks flushed with the cold. Or was it hopefulness that tinged her cheeks so? The hope of a husband. The hope of him. His heart cried to think on it. And her lips had trembled when she spoke to him, and she gulped breaths as if she would never breathe again. Her words were sweet. His heart was cold.

It was for her own good. He told himself that, over and over again, justifying the actions that his heart detested. Upon remembering how her eyes had teared, how she had tried to persuade him, how her hands stiffened within his grip. Never had he felt such conflict. A battle with his own desires, fought long and hard with blood spilt. On both sides.

She retreated, he turned away. He did not cry. But, God knows, he could have. He sat back down again, and felt numb for a long time. Adrenaline, or anguish?

And he was sat in that same spot, now, expecting Victoria to approach him yet again. The autumn's slumberous golden haze had turned to a skeletal and bleak winter. But she would not meet the same man she had met that autumn's morning. She would not be meeting Lord M, the Prime Minister, her close advisor and occasional friend. She would meet William Lamb. Her lover. Beneath the rookery on a cold winter's morn, he waited. Waiting. Waiting.

A gust of wind caught the folds of her skirt, sending a blustery ripple through the fabric, circling around her ankles. It made her shiver. The dress was light and Victoria wondered how anyone could go outside in such a garment. It was so thin and cold. She had borrowed it from Miss Skerrett, no questions asked. She thought she could catch her death. But she didn't particularly mind. She could see the sun rising in the east, and Lord Melbourne eclipsing it. He looked handsome, but not the handsome she was used to. He was a handsome politician, all intelligent glances and tired, kindly eyes. But this was a handsome man, neck exposed, hair ruffled, green eyes ablaze. Her heart filled with air when she watched him, swelling with her lungs, barely room for beating. In her ears, her footsteps roared. In his, they were quiet as mice.

He had not yet seen her.

"Lord M."

He jumped, standing up. Victoria laughed. He laughed.

The woman with Victoria's voice was not Victoria. Or, at least, he did not recognise her. She was blonde, for a start. And the dress she wore was black, and common, and dirtied a little on the drooping skirt, bound in an apron. She was small. As small as the Queen. And her face was round, and pretty, and her eyes icy blue.

Of course, it was the Queen. But it was the Queen donning a surprisingly credible disguise.

"I have to say, this is the most convincing disguise I have seen you adopt, Ma'am."

He could recognise the wig. She had worn it as Queen Elizabeth, and now it had been tied up behind her head in a neat bun, that appropriate for a maid. It was lemony in the harsh morning light. She smiled, beaming with girlish pride, at her cunning plan.

"Blonde haired and blue eyed. How does it suit me?" she asked, looking down at her humble garments briefly. Lord Melbourne studied her. She was no less beautiful. Of course she wasn't.

"You make an excellent serving girl, Ma'am," he teased.

"I could have you arrested for that."

No sooner had she spoken than he had kissed her forehead, softly and tenderly, far from the heated kisses the previous night. This was love taking its time. This was a soft meander of affection, drifting like the tides on a clear day, lapping the shores. A love that waited for springtime and bathed in its warmth. She could smell the eau de cologne on his chest, a musky smell that tickled her nostrils and embalmed her senses. It was like being drunk.

"I missed you," Victoria whispered against the prickly wool of his overcoat. Melbourne's lips brushed her wig,

"It hasn't been a day since we last saw each other, Ma'am."

"I hated every minute of it."

Icy spits of rainwater pattered across the back of her hand, which was resting on her Prime Minister's shoulder, but her hand did not move. The overcoat's colour was being spotted with a darker shade. The ground was chattering with it. Leaves were whispering with it. Rooks were retreating from it. The clouds' burden was lessening with it. The pair, simply breathing, entwined, did not stir, even when it grew heavier, and louder, and more relentless. Victoria's face turned up to his. The drops of rain that fell into her eyes and open lips did not concern her, and she was soon shielded from it by his kiss.

The rain turned into a blurring in her ears. His lips, the only dry in the rain, were her safety. He anchored her within the ocean surrounding them.

When they parted, Victoria noticed how his dark hair was stuck in plastered waves across his forehead, sodden. Her wig was limp, and falling from its bun in thick, straw-coloured clumps.

"Come," Melbourne said, noticing the red and white pins in her cheeks and the blueish stain creeping across chapped lips, "We must get you inside." He took a hand around her back, and lead her through the grounds, to Brocket Hall, like a husband showing his wife their new home. Like two people. Not a Queen and a Prime Minister. Two persons. Two nobodies.

Brocket Hall was warm and well-lit, and brimming with something unmistakable.

The distinct smell of yeast, warm and doughy, kneaded through with butter: the smell of home. She wondered whether Brocket Hall was always scented in such a way. Freshly baked bread, golden crust encasing white crumbs. It was so utterly distinct from the smell of the palace. Crystal windows, crystal chandeliers, crystal vials with crystal liquids, all culminating in crystalline nothingness. Perhaps the passing salve of aromatic oils or the powdery gust of an old book.

But nothing so refreshingly normal.

The interior was rich, but distinctly cosy, at least compared to the palace. One could imagine a family living here. One once did, she supposed. She wondered how they lived, encased in these walls. She could picture their days. Caroline sat at the piano, playing a tune she had composed herself which echoed through the room and climbed the staircase, reverberating a solemn tune to where Melbourne worked, locked in a study. His babe, a small boy, playing with butterflies in the grounds. Red admirals just out of reach. Cabbage whites landing on the grass.

She wished it for herself, and for him again.

"We are completely alone?"

"I have made it so, Ma'am."

"That will not rouse suspicion?"

"I care not, Ma'am."

Victoria let out a giddy laugh. His sudden recklessness made her heart skip and her head airy. It was all so silly. It was not real, not at all, not nearly. This was one of the books she had been read as a girl, not her life. This was one of the tales that she would listen to with bated breath, and then dream about afterwards, waking up in the dead of night just to stare out of the window at the stars, and imagine her life being like that of the characters she knew. Her life could never be that.

 _Could it?_

He advanced on her, reaching a hand to the head of hair that she had placed there. It was sopping and weighed heavy on her head – not as heavy as a crown, though. He took the wig in his hands and pulled it from her head, allowing her natural hair, thick and dark, to tumble down her shoulders. He had never seen her hair unbound in this way. Unfurled, curling slightly where it met her shoulders, one side falling over her eye, masking it. She was a little breathless. He thought that she was the most exquisite creature he had ever looked upon, now that she was so real and present and open to him.

She dropped her shawl to the ground behind her.

He took her wrist, delicate and thin; with all the tenderness he could muster, he brought it to him and placed a kiss on the underside of her wrist, on her pulse point. The beating of her veins drummed against his mouth. He took his lips away just enough to breathe a word against her skin,

 _"_ _Alexandrina."_

The name was alien on his English tongue. It could have made Victoria laugh, but it did not, for it was the most beautiful incorrectness she had ever heard.

"You know I do not like that name."

"As a Queen, Ma'am, you are Victoria. But, as a woman, Alexandrina."

He was not wrong. It was the name her mother gave her. The woman's name. Not the Queen's.

Alexandrina was the one thing she had that the Queen had not touched. And therefore it could be completely, utterly, unabashedly _his._

"William, then."

A man and a woman: _Alexandrina and William._

The day was spent cocooned. Long periods of silence met fervent talking. He fell asleep with his head in her lap. She danced with him to noise with no music. They kissed and _felt_. She explored Brocket Hall, running through corridors the way she did as a child through Kensington. He followed her, a couple of metres behind, laughing at her eagerness. She expressed her delight at paintings that bored Lord Melbourne, having seen them so often. She asked him about the books in his collection, and he indulged her with all the particulars of his knowledge. She traced shapes in the frosted window. He watched her do it. He showed her one of Caroline's necklaces: a yellow gemstone, cut into many facets, on champagne-coloured ribbon, and had almost asked her to wear it before stopping himself. She held his hand. He joked. She laughed.

She indulged in all the things she hoped a wife could do with her husband. He remembered what it was like to have a wife, but it was never quite like this. Never quite this sweet or quite this fleeting.

She forgot that she was the Queen of England.

The moonlight passing beneath the clouds caught in the wind, highlighting their woollen edges, sifting through the wisps and strands, feeding it quicksilver and watching it glow. And, knowing that they could not continue today, Melbourne spoke softly to her sleepy ear as she curled like a bud on the chaise longue,

"You must be brave, Ma'am. I know you can be brave. You must be silent, and composed, and well-behaved. And Brocket Hall can be your solace, Ma'am. But this cannot continue beyond these grounds."

She understood, but did not reply. She remained for a few more minutes, dozing on his shoulder. He knew that she had listened, and did not mind her nuzzling cheek.

The man that arrived in Parliament the next day was not the man that had attended the house for the past thirteen years. His bones, often leaden, were light. His step, often laborious, was springy. His face, often tired, was soft. Victoria had sapped it all. She had saved him. It was not the first time.

The ministers noticed something different in their Prime Minister, but could not pin it down to anything particular. He was jovial. Some assumed it was the vigour in the wake of his recent illness. Others were convinced that he was wearing a different colour of necktie. A few thought that it was just a trick of the light.

Wellington, sternly silent, stood at the edge, face hardened like marble, and just as icy, mind busied with thought, before he was given the opportunity to talk to the Prime Minister, which he took, gracefully.

"Lord Melbourne, sir," he said, treating him with civility, man to man. He did not wish to humiliate the Prime Minister, just to warn him, and propose a deal. Melbourne's good mood had made him acutely sensitive to negativity. What he would usually have interpreted as courtesy, he saw as something closer to threatening. He saw the concealed severity in his silvery brows. The creases in his face disapproved of him.

"Yes, Lord Wellington?"

"Could I speak to you privately, for a moment?" Wellington asked, feigning a smile, and motioning towards a back room where they would be undisturbed. Melbourne felt uneasy, but accepted the invitation.

The room was stacked with books: books with pages as thin as cobwebs, books with letters as small as pupils in sunlight, books thin and unsubstantial, books with thick, leathery covers, books bound in fabric, sheets of paper tied together with no cover at all. And the panelled wood balanced the chaotic books with something dependable, something regular and orderly and mundane. The walls were a neutral duck egg and the floor made little noise beneath footfall. It was a bland room.

Melbourne was asked to sit. That was an offer which he declined.

Wellington took a little while before beginning. He did not look at Melbourne's expectant face, but instead at a pile of books just past his head. He wondered how to begin. Need he waffle on before getting to the point? Or should he aim straight for the target? All his years in warfare had taught him that the most direct route was the best route, and so he began.

"I could not help but observe the exchange between you and the Queen, at the ball, two nights ago."

Lear's tempest had returned, and it was fiercer than ever.

"Peel is convinced that there is something between her Majesty and yourself. I, however, was not so convinced. I guess I have been proven wrong."

"Lord Wellington-" Melbourne desperately wanted to say something, to explain himself, to defend the Queen, to apologise perhaps, or to defend his actions, to preach, to lie, to undermine, to scream. _Oh, God. Oh, God, this was misery._

"I am willing to overlook what I saw."

"Pardon? Sir, I-"

"On one condition."

Melbourne's chest was vapid.

"I only ask that you resign, decently, without fuss, and allow Sir Robert Peel to form a Tory government."

 _Was this mercy?_

What sort of mercy was this? Should he feel thankful? He did not know what to feel. He felt that any speech would turn to vomit. He wished he had sat down.

"Do we understand each other, Melbourne?" Wellington asked, with the tactfulness of an army man. Melbourne nodded, drowsily, without thinking whether he wished to nod or no. Wellington, seeing nothing else appropriate to say, nodded as if expecting a well-behaved regiment, and turned to leave. Melbourne, feeling a little strength in anger or passion returning to his bones, stopped him with a cry.

"What do you suggest I do? Afterwards, I mean," he asked, in a momentary uncharacteristic trust in Lord Wellington.

"As a politician, I advise you sever all ties with the Queen. If any of this becomes public, it will be disastrous for England, to have a Queen showing such partiality. But, as a man… I believe it is your choice, Lord Melbourne."

And he left without another word.


	8. Melbourne's Legacy

She looked at him from across the room. It was something they used to do: but had not done in a while, for they did not need to. It did not feel right. He was sat on his armchair, in the corner of the room where the light avoided. It was a well-lit room, in all, but the daylight streaming in cloudy ribbons from the east facing window and the sunlight glaring through the north facing window did not reach that particular corner which now harboured the Prime Minister. He had been acting strangely for the past week but he was particularly bad today. It was as if he was carrying with him a perpetual fog, which clouded his joy and darkened his face and muffled his voice.

Victoria had been a frequent visitor at Brocket Hall over the past week. It was not wise. Especially not now. She was beginning to make little impressions on Brocket Hall – and each one hurt him unimaginably.

A painting of the water at Buckingham that she had crafted on an unusually balmy afternoon was hanging above the fireplace of the drawing room. She had captured the colours in the ripples excellently: foggy bottle greens met flushed pinks and dreamy sky blues which lapped at dirty browns and sweet yellows. Used glasses, with the golden rings of undrunk brandy still sitting in the bottom of them, lay on windowsills and mantelpieces, but had been cleared away by her nimble hand.

There was a corner that had grown dark and dusty in neglect. It was where Caroline used to sit. A little chair, woven with wicker, where she would sit and write her novels, stone-faced in concentration and fiercely silent for hours upon hours. And then she would cry, without prompting it seemed, and she would not see her husband no matter how he tried to talk to her. These crying fits would last ten minutes at the very most, and then she would continue with her writing and the circle began again. This ritual became the only solid thing she had in the end. Health declined and writing became more fervent.

After she died, he had not touched the chair, or the little writing table, or her quill which lay still in the ink pot, or the papers that contained her words. He would not read them.

Victoria had not touched the chair, or the writing table, or the quill, the inkpot, or the paper, but she opened the curtains of a window that had remained curtained for years. The curtains were drawn as Caroline did not like the light being too bright when she was working. But Victoria had returned sunlight to that corner. And she had collected a small glass of flowers, ones she had picked carefully from his garden, and she placed the glass on the table beside her papers. Small white buds kissed dark blue blooms as their glossy leaves stroked each other.

It had made Melbourne cry that night, when Victoria had left.

But, now, the pain of looking at that corner was beyond tears. And the painting. And the lack of glasses. And the books she had misplaced. And the plates she had eaten off. And the windows she had gazed from. The air she had laughed in. The floors she had walked on. The pain came from knowing that those things would soon be lost to him.

"You haven't spoken a word to me all day, William," Alexandrina called from her seat on the floor, in front of the chair where she could have sat but chose not to, instead deciding to rest her elbow there, propping up her hand which held a book on native English bird species. She had picked it out of his bookcase because her attention had been captured by the intense green of the fabric cover. She had never seen a book quite like it, and it was a jade amongst the faded spines of the other books. It had gold lettering, and Lord Melbourne was very complimentary of it. He was not so cheery today. "William?"

"I am a little tired today, Ma'am."

"'Ma'am'? Why 'Ma'am'?" she let out a silvery laugh as she spoke, dimples in her cheeks and crystals in her eyes. She flexed her unclothed feet tucked behind her and let her head fall to one side, hair lopping over to that shoulder. Her dress, more of a nightgown than a gown, bunched at her craning neck. Her love made no response. Her eyebrows creased for a moment, in concern, and she stood up, making a move towards him. "William?"

"Please do not call me that. Not today, Ma'am."

His words hurt. Her body crumpled over a little, as if his dismissing of her were a knife to the stomach.

"What is the matter with you?" She reached out a hand. "William?"

"Please, Ma'am!" he shouted. Victoria retreated, feeling small and frightened, like a dormouse, or something equally wretched and little. Iron was in his eyes, ferrous like the blood in his face. Her hand, that had once reached for her lover's heart, now clutched her own bosom, to staunch some bleeding there. The iron smelted until molten and his eyes took on the gentler position that she knew. Guilt riddled his brow and his open mouth. "I am sorry, Ma'am."

"What has happened?" she gasped. She had tried to will some strength into her voice. There was no strength: her words wavered and croaked and shuddered, breathlessly. "What is it?" He did not speak. "Lord Melbourne!"

"I cannot help but feel that you should have married your cousin, Albert."

Victoria remembered a summer's day when she was eight years old. She accidentally ran into a throng of nettles. The skin poking out above her shoes and little socks was lacerated by their venomous needles. She cried, and cried, her legs burning. It was the worst pain she had ever felt.

It was nothing compared to this.

"Whatever do you mean, Lord Melbourne?"

"You must produce an heir, Ma'am. You understand that," he said, his voice growing calmer and more pragmatic. He chose his words with great caution. Victoria hated it. She hated him. Why couldn't he just be angry? It would be so much easier if she could just be furious with him – and he with her. She wanted to scream at him. He would never scream at her. She choked when she spoke. He spoke with reason and eloquence. He was infuriatingly reasonable. "It is your duty to produce an heir."

 _Some gentler passion slide into my mind,_  
 _For I am soft and made of melting snow;_  
 _Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind._  
 _Let me or float or sink, be high or low._

"I would have thought that you, of all people, would have the capacity of rendering me above my womb!" she cried, face hot and veins bursting, eyes flashing like some wild animal.

"That is not what I meant, Ma'am."

"Why are you saying this? Are we not happy? Are you not happy with me?"

"No, Ma'am, that is not it at all." He rose from his seat, passionately as if he were the hero in a novel, about to confess something of unrivalled beauty. "You have made me..." He paused. The romanticism drained from his face, and reason returned. _Speak,_ she cried silently, _speak._ "I am concerned, that is all."

"Why?" she spluttered. "No one knows I am here!"

"Wellington."

"Wellington?"

"Wellington knows. He doesn't know you are here, but he knows we are conducting this… affair."

Victoria sat. The wind had dropped and her sails were flat. She was consumed by a horrible numbness. Something had deadened. A feeling that could hardly be explained: of knowing that something is so horribly, tragically wrong, but the body does not quite know what to do with the information. So it becomes anaesthetised.

"How?"

"He saw us."

"When?"

"At the ball. In the corridor, he saw us."

"What did he say?"

"He blackmailed me, Ma'am. Asking me to step down as your Prime Minister. If I do not, he will speak of what he saw."

"Do you wish to?"

"Of course not, Ma'am!"

"And you're only telling me now?"

"I didn't know how to tell you, Ma'am."

Victoria wished to continue her tirade against him. But he was panicked. He had never looked more indistinct. Normally, he was a man of defined edges, assured curves and definite colours. But now he was a mere sliver of himself, far off, but trembling with a manic energy that could not be seen as anything other than sheer panic. Carefully hidden, but not well.

"What will you do?"

"Step down, of course."

"And then what?"

"We… we cannot, Ma'am. This must end." He spoke as if talking to himself, rather than to her. Victoria was not convinced, and would not allow the world to take him from her without a fight. It had happened before, and it would not happen again. As long as she had breath in her lungs and fire in her heart, she would fight for him. She would fight every citizen of her country for this one man.

"You said to me that you were tired of being unhappy. And, then, the moment we face the slightest difficulty, you retreat back to your comfortable little hole where you will live forever in sadness! How can you do such a thing to yourself? How can you do it to me?"

"This is not just the slightest difficulty, Ma'am. You underestimate how serious this is!"

His gaze never met hers. It scoured everything else. The floor, the walls, the window and the door, the bookcases, the paintings, the portraits and the flowers: all were watched as he talked to her. Victoria wondered whether it was really her that he was talking to. It did not seem that way. In a fury, she dropped her book and took his cheek instead, turning his face to look at her, brushing a naked thumb along his cheekbone and watching it flinch. A fingertip traced the lines of his face, etched over time with life's lightest hand.

His eyes were on hers now, sunken and sad.

"So you step down as Prime Minister. Robert Peel forms a government. You remain my companion. What can be more slight?"

Scarcely blinking in fear of tears falling from his eyes, he shook his head, her hand burning into his cheek, and muttered,

"How can you be so naïve?"

A second hand found his face, and held his other cheek.

"What are you so afraid of? Lord Melbourne, why are you so hesitant?" He leant over until her forehead met his. She wept. Caroline had wept in the same voice, quietly. He had thought himself safe. Safety would be his only solace in the latter years of his time on this earth. As his youth turned to dust and his mind retired, he would still have safety.

No. He was far from safe.

 _"_ _I love you, Alexandrina. I cannot remain silent about my love for you. You have taken everything that is dark, and sad, and old in me, and you have made it young, and happy, and light. I adore you. I adore you, everything about you."_

It made her weep more.

He kissed away her tears, muttering his adoration to her cheeks, to her lips, her eyelids and her throat.

"I do not want Sir Robert Peel," she sobbed, her sound half-swallowed in his chest.

"I know, Ma'am. Sir Robert Peel may not seem like much: he can be coarse, ineloquent, awkward, even." Her laugh emerged like a gap in the rain offering the sun. "But I believe he can be a truly great Prime Minister. Better than me, I am sure."

Victoria shook her head, swallowing her tears.

"How can you say that?"

"It is true, Ma'am. There is no legacy to tell of me."

She shook her head more vigorously, pulling away from his chest so that she could look at him. She wanted him to remember what she was about to say. She wanted him to clasp it in his heart and keep the key safe for the rest of his days.

"Me. Lord M. I am your legacy. You have made me."

It was his turn to shake his head. Which he did, with subtlety. He was always subtle.

"No. I tutored you, yes. I advised you. But you were a true Queen before I had ever met you. Queen Victoria is a self-made monarch. I can only thank God for allowing me to serve her."

"But what about Alexandrina? She is yours, William."

"I am glad of it," he smiled. It was not a beaming smile; but more like the light that trickles through the window of a garden house, when the summer's cusp is cascading into autumn and the sun is still warm but brighter now, and honey-coloured. "She will be mine for now. But then I feel I must let her go."

"No. You cannot."

"I must."

 _Please,_ Victoria cried, again with no noise, _please don't._

The dazzling sun caught in her eyelashes, making them look white to onlookers and causing pearlescent orbs to form in her vision, near blinding her. Droplets on the window from a rain now gone sparked like flames, spotting her eyesight. The light was too bright. She squinted, and furrowed, and recoiled, but it still followed her. Tormenting in its glare.

She knew that the carriage had to bring her back to Buckingham at some point – but she wished it could have been years and years from that moment. Brocket Hall was her only solace. Even if it brought her pain.

Upon returning to her bedchamber, simply wishing to lie down for hours and hours in the dark, drifting in and out of sleep and allowing herself to cry and cry and cry if she so wished, she found Miss Skerrett, who leapt almost three feet in the air upon hearing her Majesty enter. She quickly regained her composure, sweeping her loose strands of lemony hair back into place, and curtsied, eyes at the ground.

"I was doing some tidying, Ma'am."

The Queen's behaviour was not advisable. But she was beyond advice.

"Can you keep a secret, Miss Skerrett?"

Miss Skerrett was highly alarmed to have such a question asked to her, on such a day, at such a time of the day. But, fuelled by her slight fear of the Queen, she replied,

"Yes, Ma'am."

"The dress I borrowed from you. It is a disguise. I have been visiting Lord Melbourne."

Miss Skerrett feigned mild shock. It was not a surprise. It was the rumour that was spreading around the palace like wildfire, and it was just as scorching.

"Yes, Ma'am?" Miss Skerrett did not look at her mistress and, when she did not reply, she repeated her prompt. "Yes, Ma'am?" Still no reply. She looked up. The Queen was crying. _Oh, God._

"I cannot go on waiting for him to make up his mind! He teases me, and then scorns me. They say how youth is fleeting, and my beauty will die with it. I do not want to live my life unloved!" Miss Skerrett had never been adapt to dealing with raw emotion in such a way. If it were anyone else, she would have consoled them with a friendly arm, a hug. But this was the Queen of England. So Miss Skerrett stood still, fidgeting with her skirt slightly, raised eyebrows and mouth gaping like a pointless fish. "I do not want to die alone!"

"You are still young, Ma'am. You do not have to fear that," Skerrett cried, knowing that she had to do something just to stop the Queen from becoming hysterical.

"I know!" The Queen retorted. "I am just being silly. Oh, I can be so very silly, can't I?" she laughed, humourlessly, almost maniacal. Skerrett laughed with her, but soon realised that perhaps she should not have. "He will not listen to me. He thinks the worst of everything! He will not act, because he fears that someone will find out about us! It will not happen. Or, at least, not again. It happened once. But we were foolish – and we will learn from that. We can be secretive. It will not be difficult! But he always makes things so difficult! I am not enough for him."

"I have always thought that the best way to a man is through persistence, Ma'am."

"What?"

"Men can be very lovely, Ma'am. But they are also inconstant. And emotional. All the things they claim women are, they are – and in excess. Pardon my boldness, Ma'am, but I think that the best way to convince Lord Melbourne is to not give up on him. He will take some time, all men do, but if you think he is worth it: that is all you can do. Be patient. Be kind. Be strong. And love."

She could be patient, because he was worth her patience. She could be kind, because he was worth her kindness. She would be strong, because he was worth her strength.

 _And she could love him, because she could do no else._

"I trust that this conversation will remain private."

"Of course, Ma'am."


	9. Twelfth Night

Difficult did not describe it.

Her dear Lord M had taught her all she knew of politics but he had not taught her of the resignation of a Prime Minister – as he had no intention of resigning, until the world gave him no alternative. With no knowledge of the affair, and a loathing of the outcome of such a business, the following weeks passed in broken fragments. She would receive instructions from an advisor she'd never met before, and she would have to enact them whilst only having half-understood them. She was talked to about Lord Melbourne and Sir Robert Peel, but met with neither of them. She was told the names of leading Tories, but thought they were Whigs. She was told of leading Whigs, but thought them Tories. She was passed scrolls and papers, and told to sign, which she would do, scribing her name onto unread pages. She would make speeches that someone else wrote for her which she had not read prior to performing them. She was confused. Everything was confused.

She could not remember when she had last felt this tired.

This process continued for a month, a tiresome month in which she saw little of anyone she considered a friend. She rarely had time to see her ladies. She tried to reach out to Lord Melbourne, but he was always indisposed. Lehzen was particularly stressed and was not gentle company. Her mother was never gentle company. Dash was perhaps the only comfort she could gain in those times. After long meetings, when her head was pounding and her eyes sore, she would curl up and Dash would lie on her stomach, nose twitching and little paws digging into her. She would fall asleep like that, only to be awoken again by a stuffy old man who would escort her to yet another meeting.

After a month, or what felt like years, Victoria was finally given the great pleasure of meeting with Sir Robert Peel.

It was a cold morning, plagued with a monotonous drizzle and a grey mist. It was the first thing Victoria saw through the little gap in the curtains when she awoke, and she saw it as an omen. Her toes were numb with cold, despite the blankets that lay atop her, and she listened for a while. The beads breaking on the window, drip drip drip drip. She closed her eyes and listened to the dripping, her thoughts a melody against its metronome, and she took this moment's silence, ran it through her fingers, and savoured it. She feared it would be her only calm today.

Eventually, she pulled herself out of bed to draw back those curtains and look at the city. Chink, swish, and there it was. There were no carriages outside, and very few people. It was early yet. Bright, but still early.

There was nothing more peaceful than this time of the morn. Victoria could not pride herself on early rises; but, whenever she could, she would make the effort to watch the mornings from her window. Perhaps it was the rising sun casting its colours across the clouds, perhaps it was the stillness of the air, the birdsong, or the freshness, the birth of a new day. Or perhaps it was because of the people that inhabit the morn. Normal little people. The kind of people that she imagined being, in another life perhaps.

The people were far off. She strained to see them.

She could see a man walking along the street, smothered in a wall of black coat and ash. His flat cap was jammed over downy, greying hair so it didn't blow off, and his chin was tucked so far into his chest that it was difficult to tell where his beard ended and his jacket began. A working man, to and fro every single day, coughing up yesterday's work and sniffing in today's through red nostrils. His hands, calloused and tough, were stuffed into pockets.

She could see two children playing in an alley. A girl and a boy. The girl looked to be twelve, maybe thirteen, and the boy no more than nine. They both had lemony blonde hair and grey clothes. Or were they brown? Their little black shoes skittered on the cobbles. They had no idea of the lives they would lead, they simply played the time away. Victoria had been that young once, not too long ago, but she had never played in such a way.

She could see the small figure of a woman on a street corner, clutching a shawl tightly around her hunched shoulders in frozen fingers, cheeks pricked with red. The woman was hardy, like the winter itself, like a great oak, unmovable, as old as England. Robustness was forged in hardship, and that woman had a fair share of both. Victoria wondered what stories she could tell. She thought it most romantic.

She wondered what her life might have been like, if she were more like that woman, and Melbourne more like the man. She would knead loaves in the kitchen, raw knuckles rapping on the wooden counter, flour in her eyes rather than flowers in her hair. Victoria could imagine Melbourne in a thick coat, face muddied in coal, and she thought it rather becoming of him. His joints would click a little more, his face would be a little rougher with silver hairs, his face may be a little more gaunt, or his voice a little tougher. He would arrive home after work and meet their two little children. _No._ Perhaps not children.

It could be just them, safe and warm together against the bleak winter's hardships.

"Drina, you must get ready, Sir Robert will be here soon!"

She did not hear her mother enter the room and so leapt a little, as if afraid her mother had seen the scandalous thoughts running through her head. She did not remember giving her mother permission to enter her private chamber in such a way, and wondered where Lehzen was. She did not have the energy to make an argument out of it, however, although she wished to.

"Of course, Mama."

Victoria decided to wear blue. It was a simple enough colour, a little boring, a little dreary. She hoped that Robert Peel would notice the lack of zeal in her clothing, and gather from it that she was not happy to see him. She had been openly rude to Robert Peel in the past. But one cannot treat inevitability with harsh words. What was the point in being severe to Robert Peel, when he was her only option? She must feign indifference and politeness. Her clothing was the only way she could show any dislike.

Of course, Robert Peel, knowing little of women's clothes and the underhand way in which women communicate, did not notice any significance in the blue of her gown – and, in fact, would later comment to Lady Peel that it was the most splendid dress, and he saw it as a good sign that she decided to wear such a lovely one to their first meeting.

"Sir Robert," Victoria glowed, offering a hand out, which he knelt before and kissed. He wobbled as he knelt. _Do not laugh at him, Victoria,_ she told herself. "How nice to see you."

"Your Majesty, it is an honour."

Robert Peel, in the dullest terms imaginable, explained politics: as if politics weren't already dull. She was not concentrating. Not only due to its sheer mind-numbing dullness, but because the topic hurt her. He began to talk of Lord Melbourne's leaving. She did not want him to leave. He talked of Tory governments. She did not want a Tory government. He talked of himself as Prime Minister. She did not want him as Prime Minister.

 _Damn Wellington._ And damn the Tory party. Perhaps she could have them all locked in the tower. Then William could be her Prime Minister forever, and her lover, and no one would complain.

"Do you understand, your Majesty?"

"Uh, yes, yes, of course, Sir Robert," she gushed, waking up again from her daydreams. Peel was not a fool, and knew that the Queen hadn't been listening intently, but was too afraid to repeat himself, so he stuttered for a little while before resolving to continue. Everything he said was boring and hurtful to Victoria. She wanted him to leave.

She noted how Peel lacked charm. She could remember clearly her first meeting with Lord M. She was very young, only eighteen, and she had always been a little shy, a little hesitant with strangers. She was afraid of meeting this man. She had heard a lot of the Prime Minister: she was told of his womanising reputation and she had some vague idea of a scandal surrounding him. Her hands shook when he entered the room. She was sure he could feel her trembling as he kissed her hand. She told herself that this man was not a stranger, but her Prime Minister, and that she must be strong with him. She must be a monarch. She was his monarch. And so, she spoke with perhaps a little too much authority towards him, perhaps a little too loudly. He was softly spoken, however. And kind. And charming. And witty. And intelligent. And sweet. And she felt a giddy rolling in the pit of her stomach that she recognised as attraction. She had felt that way about boys a few times before. He was very handsome.

And, most importantly, he listened to her when she spoke. He listened and responded. He did not write off anything she said. He did not ignore her. He did not laugh at her or mock her. He treated her like a woman. She was immediately taken with him. She recalled how she had never been treated in such a way before that moment. It was such empowerment! Men had always treated her as something silly, trivial, as if she were nothing more than the lace on her dress, or the ribbon in her hair. But Melbourne, he had treated her with reverence and fairness, an equal in intelligence and an equal in wit.

He was charming, and oh so handsome, and kind.

Peel did not seem to be any of the things that Melbourne was. Particularly, he lacked charm. A dishcloth had more charm in it.

Their talking went on and on with the drizzling rain outside, until Sir Robert finally ran out of things to say. The important matters were decided upon. It was nothing outlandish. Melbourne had agreed to step down. Peel would take his place. It was simple, really. Horrendously simple.

Peel was on his way out, cramming his hat on to his head, huffing and puffing in preparation to face the weather. His jacket had only just dried, and he was out again. But, before he left, he turned to the Queen and (in a more jovial mood) asked,

"Will you be attending the play tonight, Ma'am?"

Victoria had a vague recollection of being told of a play, but had completely forgotten that it was tonight.

"Oh, I do not think so," she replied, shaking her head. She was not in the mood for a play. The matters of politics had distressed her. She wanted to lie down and think of her love. It would only make her sadder, she knew that, but what a sublime sadness.

"Not a fan of the theatrics, Ma'am? I'm afraid I am not, either. I find it all a little too intense."

"It is not that, Sir Robert. I have had the most awful headache all day, I don't feel I can face it." Victoria brought a hand to her temple, and faked a little pain.

"Oh, that is a shame. Lord Melbourne will be-"

" _Lord Melbourne?_ " Victoria spluttered, forgetting herself. All the 'pain' of her headache evaporated in her exclamation. Almost automatically, she collected herself and, in indifference, she asked, "Will he be there?"

"I believe so, Ma'am."

Be calm. Be composed. Be brave. Don't let them see.

"I am feeling a little better, actually. Yes, I might go after all. Which play is it?"

"Twelfth Night I believe, Ma'am."

"Oh, I am very fond of that play. _Yes_ , I feel I must go."

Victoria had never seen Twelfth Night. Robert Peel could see through the Queen's play-acting in a moment. They parted. And Victoria expressed her desire to see the play.

She dressed in emerald, and the rich colour acted to diminish all mousey shades of her hair until her bun and braids, sealed with emerald ribbon, were dark and rich. She spent half an hour in front of her mirror pinching her cheeks. She wanted to look just perfect. Just beautiful.

Her royal box was prepared, and she was met with a few familiar faces and, much to her delight and anxiety, Lord Melbourne.

"Lord M, I did not know you would be here!" she beamed, greeting him warmly by taking his hands. Lord Melbourne bowed his head. Time spent away from her had dulled the hurt, but seeing her again had ripped the wound open, and he could feel its pain fiercely. He smiled through his agony. He would be a friendly face to her, no matter how much it hurt him. He could not let her share in this pain he felt. Oh, she was so lovely. He could hardly bear it.

"How lovely it is to see you, Ma'am," he replied. His voice was warm and friendly. The voice of a friend. _A friend._ The friend she had once had.

It was in this moment that Victoria realised what it was that frightened her the most. It was not the thought of him stepping down as her Prime Minister, nor the thought of losing his friendship, or even never seeing him again. It was the thought of remaining his friend, and nothing more. That was what made her heart break. She had once thought of that prospect as sensible and desirable. To fade meekly back into the state of friendship, of mild companionship, of his advice and her gentle laughter, of their walking, side by side. She could feel themselves slipping into it, and it frightened her more than anything. She did not want it all to be void. She could not bear to think that it would all mean nothing. The kisses they shared. The declarations of undying love. The time they'd spent at Brocket Hall. His desire. Her feelings. She did not want them to turn to mist. She would rather he abandoned her forever.

She wanted to kiss him right now, to breathe her love into his mouth and feel his heart receive it. But she could not.

"How do you find Shakespeare, Lord Melbourne?" she asked, resolved to play the part of friend with him.

"Shakespeare, Ma'am? Why, he is a genius."

"Do you think so?" Victoria asked, making her way with him to where she sat. Lord Melbourne laughed a little.

"Of course. Do you not agree?" he asked.

"I do not know. I remember finding him boring as a child, and I have heard little of his verse since," she pondered, studying the red velvet curtain.

"I think you will enjoy it, Ma'am. There has never been a poet with such a delicate understanding of human nature, Ma'am. His words can bring us through the most difficult of times."

Victoria's breath hitched. She was sure he meant something by that.

"And this play is particularly amusing!"

"I shall look forward to it."

No sooner had she spoken those words, that the music began to sound, the light dimmed, and the curtains were drawn back with a great swish. What a sound it was! Lord Melbourne retreated to the back of the box, in front of the curtain, where he would stand and watch, whilst Victoria leaned forward in her seat, eager to watch the play unfold.

Of all the poetry spoken by the actors, Victoria remembered one refrain distinctly:

 _She never told her love,_  
 _But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,_  
 _Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought,_  
 _And with a green and yellow melancholy_  
 _She sat like patience on a monument,_  
 _Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?_

Her eyes pricked with tears when it was spoken. Her bosom felt vast and hollow, and all the pain of her beating heart echoed in its great cavity. Everything had been sucked from it. It was empty. Blood rushed in her ears. Her chin trembled. She turned, briefly, to look at Lord Melbourne, who was watching the stage. Victoria was unsure whether it was simply the stage lights giving this effect, but she was sure that his eyes were alight. With tears? She wiped her eyes, quickly, subtly as she could manage, and gulped down the lump in her throat that ached so. _Be brave. Be brave. Be brave._

The play ended. The curtain closed. The theatre was rushed with thunderous applause, beating like thousands of mighty drums. There were murmurs and exclamations of admiration from the audience. There was laughter in recollecting the events. Victoria felt a little sad, she could not help it. She had adored the play. But it had made her sad.

She saw Lord M behind the curtain of the royal box, and put on her bravest face. _Be brave. Be brave. Be brave._

"I hope, next time you visit Buckingham, you will be wearing yellow stockings, Lord M!" she laughed. Lord Melbourne laughed with her. He, too, was sad. But would not show it.

"And cross-gartered, of course, Ma'am! I think it will be most fetching," he jested, raising his eyebrows. Victoria giggled at the thought of him in yellow, cross-gartered stockings. He would look most ridiculous! She would love to see it. Melbourne felt true warmth smother him as he watched the Queen laugh. Truly laugh. A hearty laugh. Not the Queen's laugh.

"When will you see me again, Lord Melbourne? Once you have stepped down? We must arrange something for I will miss you, dearly!" she cried, remembering what Miss Skerrett had told her about persistence. Lord Melbourne's jovial mood turned sour. Just like how the seasons turned. His happiness, a fruit on a tree, fell and moulded. He was serious. Always serious.

"I have decided to return to Brocket Hall, Ma'am. For good. Once I have stepped down and things return to normal."

Speaking those words was like being drowned. Head beneath the tide, water rushing into your ears, all other noise cut off, the sea encroaching into your nose and mouth, filling your lungs, weighing your body down, sinking deeper and deeper. He hated it. He hated it even more when he saw her reaction. Disbelief, rather than anger, which he would have preferred. And, even worse, a small amount of hope – as if she thought that perhaps this was yet another joke, or that it was some bad dream that she would wake up from, or that maybe he would change his mind.

"Lord Melbourne?"

"I have a book to write," he tried to make a joke, "Rooks to watch." _I cannot bear to see you every single day and remember all the things we shared and contemplate all that we could have been and know that I cannot and will not ever be able to have you_ , he thought. Society stopped his lips. _I want you. I need you._

"You… you cannot leave."

Lord Melbourne looked around. There was no one imminently present, a couple of people a few metres off. He lowered his voice, however. He could not be too careful. He had made a mistake before that had cost him his position as British Prime Minister. But, more than that, it had cost him his only love. _His Alexandrina._

"I am decided, Ma'am. I am sorry." _I want you. I need you._

"You must not, Lord Melbourne."

"Ma'am." _I want you. I need you._

"I am your Queen! Lord Melbourne, I forbid it!"

The people were beginning to turn and look. Melbourne could feel the heat of their stares.

"I must go, Ma'am. You know that." _I want you. I need you._

Victoria spoke to him as a sovereign. With authority. With power. But with anger, too.

"I forbid it! Lord Melbourne, I don't think you understand me! I forbid it!"

Lord Melbourne began to back away. He was afraid of his own actions, but saw no alternative.

"I am sorry, Ma'am." _I want you. I need you._

"William!" she cried, with abandon. Stop. She wanted him to stop. She began to cry. Her voice was hoarse, and her body shook with racking sobs. Her face was red. Anger and anguish. _"William!"_

He shook his head at the Queen. _Was that a tear on his cheek?_ Victoria could not tell, for his face had fallen into shadow as soon as she had seen it. He was still backing off. Stop. She still called him. He did not listen. She could have him arrested for this. She was tempted.

He fell into darkness, in regret.

 _"_ _I am your Queen!"_


	10. Unthinking

The star was too cold. Too far away. It could not be touched. Never again to burn.

Upon flying to her room, and crashing through the door, she saw the telescope he had gifted her. She had placed it in the same place, always, after using it, nightly. After laying it gently back into its box, placing the note atop it and closing the lid, she would push it snugly into the very corner of the windowsill, and there it would remain, concealed by the draping curtains until she again wanted to look at the stars. A terrible anger took a hold of her. She seized it. Grasped in hands, white with torture, she threw it, from the windowsill, across the dressing table. It knocked a perfume bottle, which fell to the carpet, smashing and spitting.

The scent was sickly saccharine. It billowed in great floral clouds into the room, invading her nostrils and beating against her temples, drawing tears from her eyes. Sneezes were wrung from her, stinging in her sinuses and drawing coughs from her chest. She had worn this perfume to Brocket Hall, when he first broke her heart, that autumn's day. She could remember drawing the balm across her collarbones and her wrists, the floral scent reminding her of all the flowers he had given her. She had chosen it especially: above all the warmer scents and the fruitier scents. She knew how much he liked his garden. She had hoped he would smell it and smile.

She was full of hope, then. She was going to marry Lord Melbourne. She would be Mrs Melbourne, finally.

But now the smell was sorrow itself. The smell was her blissful youth that she could never get back. The smell was the afternoons they had spent when she was only eighteen, laughing and laughing until they could not laugh anymore for their stomachs hurt too much. The smell was when she walked away from him that morning, sunlight near blinding her, veil threatening to blow away, crying. The smell was the secret touches they had shared at Brocket Hall, their haven, where they could be lovers and the world wouldn't watch. The smell was him rejecting her, again, walking into the shadows. Burning out.

The smell was how he could never be touched again.

She looked to the box where the telescope lay, askew in a little mess of displaced jewels. The anger drained from her veins. That was her token of his love, all she would have left of him. _Oh, cursed be her youthful spite!_ She grabbed the box again, but this time she gathered it in her hands, clasping it softly as one would a bird with a broken wing. She lifted the lid and moved the note and took the metal telescope in her hands. She fumbled to the window where she could see faint glimmers of stars poking through the clouds, and she raised the telescope to her eye.

A hairline crack burst through the night.

She began to sob, taking the broken telescope and holding it to her breast. Stars were obscured in the fracture. It sent the universe out of joint. Its clarity would never return. The stars were lost to her.

She'd broken it. She'd broken it and she could never forgive herself. She'd smashed it. She'd cracked the lens. She loved it so dearly. She loved that telescope so much. And she'd destroyed it. In heated passion. It was broken. She remembered how she had treasured it, a birthday present, so thoughtful and sweet and kind. And now she had ruined it all. In a moment's unthinking. She held it to her chest, wrapping fingers tightly around it like a vice, and tucked her chin into it, until the cold metal numbed her; and she held it like she wanted to hold him. How she had held him. How she wished he could hold her.

When the stars were blotted by inky clouds and those inky clouds were burnt away by the morning sun, Lehzen found Victoria curled on the carpet in a puddle of perfume, clasping a telescope and suffering in a restless sleep.

" _Victoria!_ " she cried, falling to her mistress' side, leaning in close to her and brushing away matted strands of dark hair that fell across her ashen cheek. " _Victoria!_ " The Queen, now more of a little girl than a Queen, began to rouse, groaning and coughing. The coughs turned to hacks, which racked her small frame for a few moments, before she stilled, wrapped up in Lehzen's arms, sighing and making mewling moans like a wounded woodland creature.

She had almost forgotten what had happened, but then her gaze fell on the telescope which now lay in her lap. The breath that would ignite her speech was laboured, pulled through a throat thick with phlegm, but once a little air lined her lungs, she whispered,

"I will never be happy again, Lehzen."

Lehzen's ears hardly deciphered the sound, for it was so meek and cracked. Lehzen had not held Alexandrina in her arms for a long time. The little girl who would trip and fall and cry over the scrape on her elbow. The little girl who would sniffle at the sight of her own blood: _red not blue_. The little girl whose elbow would be mended by her hand, and then that arm would grasp Lehzen's waist. She would cling like a limpet. Her little limpet.

"Victoria," Lehzen said, tightening her arm around Alexandrina's shoulders, "You will mend. All wounds heal, _mein Liebling._ " Victoria shook her head feverishly, hair shaking out, madly.

"You do not understand! I have lost the only person I care for! I have no one!"

"You are not alone," Lehzen shushed, gently, gently.

"I am. I am alone."

"Drina."

Her mother had heard the noise, and had leapt from her bed to her daughter's chamber. The noises were horrible, especially so early in the morning. Victoria looked up to see her. A thankless child looked to her mother. Mama had always wanted Victoria to marry her cousin Albert. Oh, she must be feeling so proud of herself now that her daughter is alone and miserable simply for not taking her advice. Victoria was filled with fire.

She wriggled free from Lehzen's grip and scrambled to unsteady feet. Her chin flew up into the air and she clasped her hands together in front of her. This would have been the stature of the Queen of England, if her cheeks were not stained with tears, eyes puffy, nose bright red, stinking of perfume, hair stuck to her right cheek with dried up saliva. It made her look pathetic.

"I do not want you here, Mama."

"Drina, I wish-"

"I said I do not want you here! Nor you, Lehzen. I want to be left alone."

"Ma'am, if we can-"

"Get out!" she shrieked, her temper flying from the palace windows, overwhelming the whole of London. "Get out!"

The base fear that struck the hearts of those who wronged a sovereign fuelled their muscles to flee the room, closing the door tightly behind them. Victoria could hear her Mama weep outside the door. The sound was greeted a pillow, which Victoria chucked at the door with a grunt. It thumped softly on the door, falling with a little puff to the ground. It was unimpressive, so she cried out instead.

Robert Peel was called for. He was called for as quickly as he could be. As the new British Prime Minister, everyone assumed that he would be capable of cheering the Queen up – or, at least, talking some sense into her. The servants' chatter was all filled up with gossip of the Queen's hysteria, the cause of it, and (more juicily) the consequence. Gruesome details of doctor's cures for hysteria, all false, were passed from mouth the mouth. _Surely they wouldn't do such awful things to the Queen of England, would they? They did terrible things to King George III, I don't see why our Queen should be any different. But the Queen is not mad, is she? Madness. Hysteria. There's no difference._

 _The Queen is mad._

It was the news that greeted Robert Peel when he exited the carriage, and the news was not received warmly.

"Mad?"

"We believe so, yes, sir."

"Has she seen a doctor?"

"No, sir."

"You have not sent for a doctor?"

"No, sir. We thought it best to send for you."

"For madness? What do I know of madness?"

"I do not know, sir. We thought you might be able to help her."

"I am not qualified! How would I be able to help her?"

"We thought you could perhaps cheer her up, sir."

"I do not think the Queen cares for me particularly."

"No, sir."

"Where is she?"

"In her chamber, sir."

"Right."

Peel did not like the idea of visiting the Queen in her private chamber, but it seems he did not have much say in the matter, as a group of servants or suchlike were trundling him along corridors and around corners and up staircases against his will until he reached a large white door behind which a woman's sobbing could be heard. Or, as Sir Robert Peel and many within the walls of Buckingham Palace would call it, hysteria.

Robert Peel turned to the crowd of servants that had formed behind him. Hesitancy seized him. He couldn't ask them for advice – that would be humiliating. So, instead, he sort of gawped at the congregation for a few seconds, turning noticeably paler. Then, suddenly, he swerved on his heels and knocked on the door.

"Your Majesty?"

The weeping stopped for a moment. She had heard him. A pause. And then she resumed.

 _Oh, dear Lord._

"Your Majesty, it is Sir Robert Peel," he shouted at the door. He pronounced his name as if he was talking to a small child: making a clear point of saying each and every syllable. Perhaps it was their imagination, but everyone would swear that the sobbing increased in both volume and urgency upon hearing that Sir Robert Peel was at her door. "Are you… well, Ma'am?"

No reply. Robert Peel shifted. His toes curled. His mouth dried up. His face went from white to red. There were mutters and murmurs from the group behind him. This was not befitting of a Prime Minister. They thought him weak. He could not be weak. He would not allow himself to be weak. What to do? What to do? He was running out of things to say. _Why are women so difficult?_ Frustrated, he cried,

"I am sure Lord Melbourne is happy, Ma'am."

"How dare you tell me how he is feeling." Sir Robert leapt back, alarmed by the sudden sound of the Queen's voice. His heart thumped. It rendered him winded. "Do not talk of him. You have no right to talk of him in my presence! What you think he is feeling means nothing to me. I do not care about you! I do not care about any of you! Leave me be!"

Sir Robert Peel, so red that one would think his skin had become transparent and you were simply seeing the blood in his face, turned back around to the group of servants (who were now muttering amongst themselves more urgently) and, in his best Prime Minister's voice, announced,

"It appears the Queen is a little under the weather."

Meanwhile, Lord Melbourne's carriage took the road past Buckingham Palace. The windows, frosted by winter's breath, were barricades to him. The gates, gleaming a heavenly gold, were bolted to him. The doors were locked to him. Within the walls, and the windows, and the gates, and the doors was the Queen. Probably eating breakfast, marmalade glazed across toasted bread, or tickling Dash's chin, or painting, or laughing. Surely laughing. With blue eyes burning in the candlelight, the line of a clavicle rising with her breath and hollowing with breathlessness, she would be contented.

Those lips had kisses left in them, although he no longer indulged in them. Those eyes had gazes left in them, although he could no longer share in them. That heart had love left within it. He was sure. He could no longer have it, but someone else would, one day.

As for him, he would never again enter those walls.

The facts, the necessities, ran through his head – repeated and repeated and repeated in an attempt to convince himself of them. He had loved. He had been loved. He had been married for twenty-three years of his life. He had seen himself a married man. A woman had taken his name. He had enjoyed the company of women. He had luxuriated in their sex when it was not wise to. He had borne a son. His own flesh and blood. A little boy that he loved more than all the world and all the other worlds combined. His son was all that was good in him. He missed him more every minute. He missed his wife, too, a little. He missed his youth. He missed William Lamb. He missed what it was to love and be loved.

But he was growing old. It was not wise to cling to youth simply because you missed it. It would make him a fool.

The carriage shuddered to a stop, wheels screeching and chattering and grinding on stones. It was time for him to attend the Commons for the last time. It was a bitter feeling. Like a bad taste in the mouth. Like a dull aching in the very core of him. He did his duty silently and with dignity.

Lord Melbourne saw Lady Portman outside the house, when he was finally relieved. _Had she been waiting for him?_ Dread bled cold into his bloodstream at the thought of her bringing up some undesirable conversation. He was tired, and sad, and wished to be alone.

"Lady Portman! To what do I owe the pleasure?" he exclaimed, charming and jovial and friendly and all the things he knew Lady Portman expected of him. He could still switch it on, he was glad of that. The exceeding charm almost tricked Lady Portman into believing that Lord Melbourne was just splendid. But Lady Portman was a sensitive, perceptive lady - and not at all a fool. She loved Melbourne, dearly. But she knew that he was a fool.

"I wanted to see how you were," she said, grinning at him warmly. He laughed,

"I am fine, thank you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be on my way. I have a long journey."

He took her hand, kissed it, hurriedly, and moved past her towards his carriage. He was stopped, however, by what Lady Portman called to him.

 _"_ _She will miss you, William."_

He turned. Lady Portman was so quick. He loved her for it. But also hated it.

"She may," he said, smiling faintly, raising his eyebrows. These little quirks of expression he gave suggested contentedness, but the tremble in that small smile and his downcast gaze told otherwise. "But she is still young. She will mend. She will find another."

"And what of you?"

He hadn't been asked of his feelings. The question crumpled his shoulders into his chest where his heart lay, bleeding.

"I have always said that happiness can be recollected in tranquillity."

"Do you really believe that?" she uttered. Words so soft suffocated him.

 _No. Of course I do not believe that. I believe I shall be miserable for the rest of my days. I believe there shall never be a waking moment when I am not thinking of her. I believe the memory of her will hurt more than I can bear. I believe I shall never find happiness unless I am with her. She is my only happiness. But I cannot have her. God knows how much I want her. But I can never have what my heart yearns for. No. I do not believe that happiness can be recollected in tranquillity. I believe that tranquillity will kill me. But I have no other option._

 _I love her unthinkingly. But I think too much._

Lady Portman could see Lord Melbourne's thoughts plaguing his face. An illness. More real and more dangerous than any physical ailment. Far more agonising. He need not speak, and she knew he would not. Her heart wept to see her friend in this way. He allowed the world to break him. Stoical and brave and resigned, he resolved to the fate that would kill him.

"Will you see her? Before you go?" she asked.

"No, I cannot."

"I understand," she replied. "Will you come back?"

"Perhaps. But not soon."

"Of course."

Robert Peel, unannounced and grey in thought, walked briskly out into the street, took a quick glance at Lady Portman before his eyes settled on Lord Melbourne, and then he asked to see him. It was a simple and no-nonsense little command that took Lord Melbourne by surprise. Robert Peel's brow was shining with a sheen of sweat, and he looked frazzled. Lord Melbourne did not know what it was that had caused such a stress in Robert Peel, but it had made him quite the sight! If Lady Portman were less polite, she would have laughed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Lord Melbourne could see a little smirk pass across her lips, and he too smirked. Peel did not notice.

"Inside, if you please, Lord Melbourne."

"I have a journey ahead of me, Sir Robert. How long will this take?" Melbourne asked. Sir Robert was not one for idle chit chat, not right now, and so he released an audible sigh, which barged unwanted into the conversation, before explaining to Lord Melbourne, in no uncertain terms, that he wished to speak to him of a matter of great importance. Lord Melbourne knew that meant the Queen. And he followed Sir Robert without another moment's delay.

Lady Portman watched her dear friend go and, holding a gloved hand to her heart, prayed that this cruel world would allow him a little joy before the dust caught up with him. That was all she could do for him. She hoped it would be enough. Her little wish for him. She shed a tear for him, wiped it on a handerchief and, taking a little strength in hope, she walked back down the street, thinking of him, and thinking of dear Queen Victoria.

"You have always denied, Lord Melbourne," Peel began, pacing a little to and fro, speaking in plain, almost military terms. He had clearly been learning from Wellington. "that you have conducted a relationship with the Queen that is – how can I say this? – a little more than friendship."

Lord Melbourne cleared his throat of the solid lump that had grown in it upon hearing Sir Robert. He was anxious of the pause he was leaving to answer the question, and so made up for it by spewing his reply,

"Yes, I do deny it, Sir Robert."

The spewing of words did little to make his case any more convincing.

"I know you wish to think of me as a laughingstock, Lord Melbourne. I am not as charming as you, or as handsome. You are a thoroughly Georgian man, I am not. But I do pride myself on my brain, sir. And I know that the Queen is not simply your friend."

Melbourne was thinking on his toes. It was a skill he was rather good at, any other time. But he was distracted and, so, he was entirely feeble. Not exactly the Georgian man that Peel described. More of a bumbling buffoon.

"We… are close friends, Sir Robert."

" _Do not take me for a fool, Melbourne!_ " Peel cried. "Was the Queen your lover?" he asked through a grate of teeth attached to a clenched jaw. Lord Melbourne would never have admitted it, but he was afraid of Robert Peel in that very moment. And, dumping the weight that threatened to make his shoulders collapse, he replied,

"Yes."

There was something vaguely disapproving in Sir Robert, as one would expect, but it was a much gentler reaction than Lord Melbourne had imagined. He nodded, which was strange. Melbourne had expected his head to wag in the other direction. He had known all along, but was not smug. The shadows on his face deepened as he thought, but he was not stormy. Simply pensive.

"Everyone is concerned, Lord Melbourne-"

"I understand, Sir Robert. I-"

"Lord Melbourne, please, let me speak," Peel interrupted, raising a hand to Lord Melbourne as one would a stubborn child, not the Prime Minister or, at least, ex-Prime Minister. Melbourne stopped his mouth. "Everyone is concerned that we should have an impartial Queen. I, of course, share in that concern." Melbourne nodded, head hung low, ashamed. It was beginning to all mesh into something horrible for him. Peel was making it all seem shameful. All melding into a grey glob of regret. Every touch they shared was disgusting. Every kiss was an insult. It was treason. A product of his base lust. A sin. "But, I believe it is more important to have a Queen of sound mind. And, besides, what the public doesn't know won't hurt them."

Lord Melbourne opened his mouth to speak, but choked instead, his voice cloying in his chest.

"What I mean, Lord Melbourne, is that I am allowing yourself and her Majesty to continue whatever relations you were conducting. And that I will help to keep the affair… private."

The clogging of his throat and chest cleared in a sudden gasp that shuddered from him.

"I only ask that the Queen does not… come to be… with child."

Melbourne's face was hot. _Was he blushing? Like a schoolboy learning for the first time of the matters of love? God, he was a fool. A fool. Fortune's fool._

"Of course, Sir Robert. Of course." Lord Melbourne was almost wheezing, dizzy with this onslaught of information, this unexpected news, this gospel that was being offered to him.

"You must be very careful. This must be enacted with the greatest care," Peel reminded Lord Melbourne, who had begun to grin (unnervingly dazedly) with all the prospects of this news. Peel thought this the most unflattering lovesickness. He was beginning to regret his decision. It was not befitting of a gentleman to be acting in such a way. It made his stomach turn. "Will you go back to see the Queen? I'm afraid I cannot face her again. This morning was most… interesting."

Without even replying to Peel, Melbourne turned, a newfound spring in a step that had not sprung in such a way for years. But, before he had left the room, the swelling of his heart prompted him to stop the springing step, turn to Peel, and nod,

"Thank you."

Peel scoffed.

"Do not think I am doing this for you! In fact, this is most disruptive to Tory politics. But I think a mad Queen would be more disruptive. We've had a mad King. England cannot have a mad Queen."

 _A mad Queen. His mad Queen. His mad Victoria. His mad Alexandrina._

 _He was mad, too._

"You do… love the Queen, don't you?" Peel asked, knowing full well of the lust of men. Melbourne didn't even breathe.

 _"_ _Unthinkingly."_

Buckingham Place tried to spit him out as soon as he had flung himself through the doors, unbound and exposed, roving like a romantic wild thing, searching out his love like Heathcliff on the moors. The Byronic hero that Victoria had dreamt of was coming for her. Servants tried to slow him, attendants to dope him, footmen to talk to him, ladies to reason with him, but he had none of them. There was no time. He found her chamber as if his heart knew the way, following the twine that bound them together, always. And he opened the door. Closing it behind him. The lock clicked shut. _Click._

It was improper. It was scandalous. Robert Peel would have fainted. But he did not care at all.

Victoria was curled in white sheets. The linen smothered her, bathing her in a pale light, sparking the ice in her eyes and smoothing her porcelain jaw. Her nightgown swallowed her in lace, billowing around her arms, cinching with the small curve of her, sweeping at her bare ankles. Anger roughened her face, for only a second, as she was expecting another visitor, but it softened into shock when she saw her dearest Lord M at her door, neck bare, jacket hitched on his shoulder, hair ruffled, heaving with exercise.

"Lord Melbourne. I did not think I would see you again."

"Neither did I, Ma'am."

 _Ma'am._ Of course. Victoria's face hardened once again as she came to sense. This was his goodbye. He had come to visit her one last time, to wish her a friendly farewell. _Ma'am._ Lord Melbourne was fulfilling his role as a royal subject. Nothing more. Nothing less.

"For a long time, Ma'am, I thought you were going to marry your cousin, Prince Albert."

 _Oh, dear Lord, why does he wish to hurt her so?_

"After he left, I had quite forgotten how much the prospect of that broke my heart."

 _What?_

"I have been pretending, all this time, that I can live without you. But, the truth is... I cannot. I once said that I mate for life: like a rook. But, I believe that I never truly gave my heart to Caroline. And she never gave hers to me. My heart, this weary heart, is now truly possessed by someone. It belongs to another. Not at all myself."

"Lord Melbourne-"

"No, Ma'am, it is my turn to talk. I am not a prince. I cannot offer you a country. I cannot give you a husband. I cannot give you a child. But I can give you myself. All of myself. Every vein that my blood touches, every part of me that beats with life, I give to you until that life no longer beats. I give it all to you, if you will have it. I am at your mercy, Victoria. _I am yours._ "

"Victoria?" the Queen sobbed, the very core of her almost bursting through her skin, breaking open in all directions, so full of this light that it could not be contained within such a small frame. " _That is not my name._ "

" _Oh, Alexandrina! Alexandrina!_ " he cried, the twine binding them pulling taut until they were on each other's bodies, pressed together as close as they could be, until there was nothing separating their two hears. Their two souls intermingling into one star. Tangling together the way they were created to do. She was encased in him, caged within a love that neither could comprehend fully, but both experienced relentlessly. Victoria could feel the woman blossoming in her. Melbourne allowed himself to be a man. Exposed. Raw. Trembling. " _Alexandrina. Alexandrina._ " Melbourne repeated against her hair, which tickled his nose and set fire to his nerves. He would never tire of that name. That name was his lifeblood. His purpose. His pole star. " _Alexandrina._ " He kissed her head, tenderly, as she nuzzled into his chest, unravelling in the scent of him like a gardenia at the first smell of spring.

They burned strong and bright together.

Still pressed into his chest as tightly as she could be, she said,

"I broke the telescope you bought me, William."

He chuckled. He could do nothing else but chuckle and cry.

"I will fix it, Alexandrina. I will fix everything, I promise."

She pulled away, briefly, for a long distance between them now could be fatal, as he possessed half of herself, and she could not live without the other half of her soul. They would never be apart again. She would not allow it. He would not allow it.

She looked up at him, and he down at her.

He was so handsome. He was as handsome to her now as he had been that very first time they met. She was wearing black then: now, white. She had turned when the door opened. He had entered and knelt down to kiss her hand: in doing so, he claimed all she had. He still owned it. But, now, she had claimed all of him, too.

 _He was a man of great feeling, and she was all he felt._

"What will become of us?" she asked.

"I have not thought that far ahead."


End file.
